Bang
by Connell
Summary: Just a little ditty about Chino!Ryan! Rated M for violence and language.
1. Chapter 1

Author's Note: Just a ditty about Chino!Ryan! Sorry folks, I tried, but I hate Newport. So I dragged the kid kicking and screaming back to Chino—where all is sunshine and happiness—Ryan still has a bit of a sack—is a little less of an Eeyore—and his brother hasn't fallen under the spell of the _lava lamp_ —which I completely blame for his evil ways.

Special thanks go out to **overnighter** for kicking me in the butt to get moving on this and providing me with some invaluable comments and suggestions (and the initial inspiration through one particular description of Ryan in the ab-fab _The Reno_ ) and, of course, to **crashcmb** who remains the best beta in the business.

Since Ryan was either 16 or 17 his first year in Newport—and apparently repeated 11th grade there, he's a Sophomore here. So sue me. I own nothing—nothing. Not these characters—or their evil opposite characters over in Newport.

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**Bang**

Ryan was standing, his shoulders and the back of his head resting against the warm red brick of the building behind him. The heel of his boot was propped up, flat against the wall, bracing him, and the thumb of his right hand was resting loosely on the shelf it created of his thigh, a cigarette dangling lazily from his fingertips. Without opening his eyes, he lifted his face towards the warm spring sun, raised his hand and took another deep drag.

He had ten minutes before his sixth period American History class and had ducked out the back door for a quick smoke. While not exactly patently sanctioned, smoking was begrudgingly tolerated in this one section of the school grounds—for the kids who were over eighteen, anyway. As for the rest of them—well, the administration had recently begun cracking down on the underaged smokers—not that Ryan was overly concerned. The system of discipline placed into effect amounted to three-strikes and a one-day suspension. Ryan could do the time blindfolded, gagged and standing on one hand—besides, the school year was almost over and he had only accumulated one strike so far.

After the third obnoxious blare of the horn, Ryan slit his eyes open in annoyance, turned his head—without even bothering to expend the energy necessary to actually lift it from the wall behind him—and followed the sound to a white pickup—parked just outside the chain-link fencing that marked the outer periphery of the school's back lot.

_Fuck_!

"Hey, man. I think that dude's trying to get your attention."

Ryan looked down at the little, skinny, redheaded kid sitting a few feet to the left of him, knees to chest, back to wall, sucking on his own cigarette—as bored as he was. A freshman, maybe. Ryan wasn't sure he'd ever seen him before. Though that didn't mean a whole hell of a lot. It wasn't like Ryan was the social chair of Chino Hills—not by a long shot.

"Ya think?" He muttered, taking another drag, before exerting pressure on the heel of his raised foot, pushing his shoulders from the wall and standing upright. He cautiously made his way to the chest-high fence, knowing that there could be no good reason why he'd be summoned like this—in the middle of a school day. As his stomach clenched in anticipation—and dread—he worked to keep his expression passive—bored even.

When he reached the fence, he took another drag on the cigarette, squinted through the open window and waited to see what the man wanted.

"Get in," AJ demanded, jerking his head towards the passenger seat.

"I'm—uh—I'm kinda busy," Ryan gestured behind him with a wave of the cigarette, "you know—with school and all."

"Just get in the fucking truck, man. School's out."

"_Marshall—Mellors—Taylor––Mitchell—Wilkens—Atwood_!"

Ryan turned. The vice principal, Mr. Logan, was standing, his body still positioned halfway in the building, propping the heavy, gray, inoperable emergency exit open with a battered, tousled penny-loafer and writing down names on the small, red, rectangular sheets that were affixed to the clipboard he held awkwardly in front of him. A half-dozen kids jumped—almost in unison—and flicked away the evidence they held between their fingertips—before roughly assembling in a fidgety, pissed-off line, waiting for him to fill out their warning slips and admit them back into the building.

Ryan stayed where he was, watching over his shoulder as the other kids scrambled into position. He took another drag. Fuck it. He'd already been caught. No point in throwing away a perfectly good cigarette.

"I ain't playing, man. Get in the fucking truck—_now_."

_Jesus_, this must be worse than he thought.

"Why? What's goin' on?"

"You know why—and I ain't asking you again."

Confused, but fairly certain that at least nobody was dead, Ryan finally flicked away his butt. He put his right hand on the fence's top rail, stuck the toe of his boot through one of the links for leverage, and hopped over the fence in one fluid motion. As he landed cleanly on the other side, he heard his name called out sharply from behind again.

"_Mr. Atwood_!"

He turned.

"Just where do you think you're going?" Logan was rushing down the metal steps—leaving the doorway momentarily unattended. The redheaded kid was attentive enough to seize the opportunity to grab the door just before it slammed shut. The small, scraggily line of underaged smokers rushed in and disappeared, the door closing behind them with a definitive—and audible—_click_.

"I've gotta go—it's a—uh—it's a family emergency," Ryan explained, fully aware of how feeble his excuse sounded.

Logan stayed where he was, at the bottom of the steps leading from the back of the building—a good ten yards away—and exaggerated a glance from Ryan to the sketchy-looking older guy in the white t-shirt, with the sleeves rolled up tight over the obscenely overdeveloped biceps, who was sitting in the front seat of the truck. Ryan watched as the administrator's face registered his disgust and disappointment—and he knew that Logan must have thought he'd interrupted something illegal—a drug deal, most probably. After all, it wasn't like the Atwoods didn't have a history—considering Trey'd been expelled and his records transferred to Chino Valley after Romie the drug dog alerted to his locker during a random sniff-search—and cops found a roach holding his place at Chapter 4 of _The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test_.

"If it really is a family emergency, have the gentleman come inside, we'll verify it—and we'll sign you out. Otherwise, you'll be leaving campus without permission. If you do that? It's an automatic 3-day truancy suspension—and you and I both know that you can't afford to add that to your record."

Ryan turned and looked pointedly at AJ.

"He can suspend you—I can end you—it's your call, hotshot."

Ryan stood, head tilted to one side, and processed the consequences of his choices—it didn't take long. After just a few seconds, he signaled his decision by cocking his head decidedly in the other direction and tossing a vague apology in Logan's direction, "Look, man—I'm—I'm sorry—but, I gotta do this—I gotta go." Ryan walked around the front of AJ's truck.

Logan called out again, just as Ryan reached for the door handle. "I want to see you—and your mother—in my office, first thing tomorrow morning. Do you understand me?" Annoyed, Ryan gave a modified version of the official Trey Atwood salute in response—putting his index and middle finger to his temple for just a second—before flicking his wrist and pointing his index finger at Logan. Had it been his brother—the administrator would have been on the receiving end of the other finger.

He jerked open the car door and jumped into the seat next to his mother's boyfriend.

"Do you mind telling me what's goin' on?" he asked, once the truck pulled away from the curb.

"Nah—I'd rather you tell me," AJ grunted in response.

"I—I have absolutely no idea what this is all about."

"Bullshit. You're a lousy fucking liar, Atwood."

Ryan secured his seatbelt and pressed himself tightly against the passenger-side door—reached over his right shoulder with his left hand and pushed down the lock.

"Jesus, AJ, I'm not lying—so why don't you knock off all this fucking cryptic bullshit and just tell me what it is you think I've done—what's important enough that I gotta get myself suspended—what's important enough I gotta drag my mom to school tomorrow—make her miss a shift?" Ryan was suddenly weary again. His eyes were half-shut—he rested the side of his forehead against the cool glass of the car door—and he feigned indifference—even as he calculated whether he was still within AJ's reach—and watched for any sudden movement from AJ's right hand.

"You think I give a shit—you get suspended? Suspended, expelled—who cares—your schooling ain't exactly high on my list of _give a shits_, hotshot."

"What's this all about, AJ?" Ryan asked again, trying to keep his impatience from seeping into the tone of his voice.

"We'll talk about it when we get home."

"Your home or mine?" He muttered, just loud enough for AJ to hear.

"What the fuck does that even mean?" AJ growled.

"Nothing," Ryan murmured, giving himself a mental kick in the ass for giving AJ yet another reason to come down on him.

"_Seriously_. What the fuck is that? I live in your mom's fucking house, hotshot—_my_ fucking house. Don't you forget for one minute that your mother invited me there."

As the truck rolled to a half-assed stop at the corner, AJ leaned over and continued in a malevolent hiss, "Hell, she invited me in between her fuckin' legs, tough guy, and I ain't heard a whole lot of complaints. She invites my cock into her mouth for a Hooverin' almost every night of the fucking week. You so sure you wanna be havin' this conversation?"

Ryan took a deep breath, and refused to rise to the bait—preferring to leave a wide berth around this particular topic. Luckily, AJ let it drop and the rest of the short ride was made in silence.

AJ jerked the steering wheel and turned into the driveway—going entirely too fast for the maneuver. Ryan reached out a hand and braced himself against the glove-box as he was first thrown forward towards the windshield, then back against the side of the door. As AJ cut the engine, Ryan unlatched his seatbelt, reached back over his right shoulder, popped the lock and opened the door, turning his body and sliding to the ground in one quick motion—his boots making a small, scuffing noise as they hit the dirt.

"Let's go," AJ signaled towards the door with a nod of his head.

As Ryan shut the door to the truck, he mentally braced himself. AJ waited, arms crossed, while Ryan traversed the small patch of mottled grass that edged the front walk. The front door was locked and he suddenly realized that he'd left his key in his backpack, which was still in his locker—at the high school—his bike still chained to the school's side rack.

As he moved out of the way and waited for AJ to join him, he was suddenly and painfully aware that—at this particular moment—the house actually did belong more to AJ than it did to himself—especially considering he had to wait for the prick to unlock the door and let him inside.

He didn't know if he was relieved or disappointed to discover that his mother wasn't home. It wasn't so much that his mom was a particularly effective ally when it came to her younger son getting the crap kicked out of him by her current asshole of a boyfriend—or—really—if truth be told—any of the long line of assholes who'd occupied that particular position—but at least he was pretty sure that she wouldn't actually let the motherfucker kill him.

Unsure of what to do when AJ didn't immediately follow him into the house, Ryan made his way over to the counter that separated the dining room from the kitchen, turned and leaned back. He scratched at his left wrist nervously with his right hand, until he realized that he was doing it—stopped—and waited motionless for AJ to give him some indication of what this was all about.

AJ finally lumbered in, taking the time to lock the door behind him. Um—not a good sign.

"What's—" Ryan cleared his throat, when the word stuck—tried again—"What goin' on?"

Apparently, AJ was still in no particular hurry. He positioned himself a few feet in front of Ryan—and deliberately crossed his arms—drawing Ryan's attention to his left wrist for the first time—and to the watch that was now prominently displayed there.

_Shit_!

If Ryan had held out any ridiculous semblance of hope that this particular encounter with AJ wasn't going to end up with him on the receiving end of an ass stomping? Well—all doubt was instantly erased. Because there was absolutely no way that this particular—_whatever_ (as Trey would call it)—was going to end without a fight. Not with AJ wearing that watch.

If history taught Ryan anything—it taught him that he didn't stand a snowball's chance in—well in Chino—really—when it came to a physical confrontation with AJ. Hell, he'd even seen AJ leave his brother in a bloody pile of broken Trey—complete with a couple of cracked ribs and a shattered eye-socket—and Trey was a much better fighter than Ryan. Hell, he was the best street-fighter Ryan had ever seen—at least before AJ showed up, anyway.

"That's—that's my dad's watch." He whispered, despite himself.

"It's mine, now, hotshot."

"No way, AJ! You got that from my room." Ryan was in a state of semi-shock. Even though he was staring at the proof—well—right in its face—he couldn't believe that AJ'd been ballsy enough to go into his room—and to paw through his stuff. That was one particular line that had not been crossed before—in the year that AJ had mooched off his mother—in the year he'd lived in their home. For a few seconds Ryan was completely at a loss with how to deal with—or how to react to the utter disregard to his privacy—the invasion into his personal space.

If anything, AJ seemed faintly amused by Ryan's reaction. "Yeah, so what. A titty for a fucking tattoo, man."

"Give it back!" Ryan made a lunge for AJ and was rewarded for his effort with a quick blow to his head from the heel of the man's hand. It stung like a motherfucker, but at least it didn't knock him down.

Ryan spent the next couple of seconds shaking his head—trying to clear the cobwebs—and silence the tinny ringing in his left ear.

"Why—what were you doing in my room?" He finally sputtered.

"I was looking for something—something of mine—something you took—something I want back."

"I didn't take anything of yours."

"Really? Because I don't believe you, man. I had something yesterday and today it's gone. I didn't take it. Your mom didn't take it. So who does that leave? Besides you?" AJ asked, as he crowded into Ryan's personal space.

"What is it—_exactly_—that you think I have?" Ryan realized he was trapped between AJ and the counter. Looking at the man blocking his only avenue to safety, even as he felt the counter pressing into his back, Ryan recognized that he'd made a critical error in judgment when he'd entered the house and taken up his position near the kitchen—it was a mistake he vowed to never make again. Hell, the next time he'd stand in the middle of the fucking dining room.

"Oh, c'mon! Quit the bullshit, man. Here's how it's gonna go down. You're going to give me back the gun—and the bag of weed—I'm gonna knock you around a little—and we'll call it a day—we'll go out for ice-cream—hell, I'll even let you ride on my shoulders."

"_Gun_?" Ryan shook his head in disbelief. "This is about a gun? Christ, AJ, I don't have your fucking gun."

AJ leaned in closer—if such a thing was even possible—as his eyes narrowed.

"This ain't a joke—and believe you me—this ain't a game you wanna be playin'. Because I will hurt you, Atwood. I will mess you up—but bad. You are_way_ out of your league here, hotshot. You're trying to hit a ball off a tee—and there's a fastball—coming at you—aimed right at your fucking head. Now don't be a dumbass—where's the gun?"

"C'mon, AJ." Ryan somehow managed to hold himself in check—he put his palms out in a gesture of contrition—and improbably hoped that oncoming train could still be derailed. "You gotta know I didn't do this—I mean—a _gun_? What the hell am I gonna do with a gun?"

"This ain't twenty questions, hotshot."

AJ backed up a step—cocked his right fist and punched Ryan. Even though he knew it was coming and braced himself—while simultaneously trying to turn away—the blow still landed squarely under Ryan's right eye—and it felt like it may have busted something. The impact knocked Ryan to the ground, where he lay for a couple of seconds—trying to remember where—and who—he was.

As soon as his vision cleared, he looked up at AJ. The man stood with his fist still clenched tightly. Too tightly, to Ryan's way of thinking. Looking at the stark contrast between the whiteness of the knuckles against the rest of AJ's hand, Ryan couldn't help but think that the man should be wincing, shaking out his hand—or at least looking at it.

So—Ryan decided that AJ was either drunk or amped—and, considering that he couldn't smell anything on him mixed in with his usual scent of chronic halitosis, cigarette smoke and b.o.—he stacked his chips decidedly on the latter.

_Christ_. Things were just getting better and better.

When Ryan made no immediate attempt to stand, AJ got impatient. "Get up," he finally ordered, holding his hands out, palms up, and gesturing towards himself with a couple of quick little waves of his fingers.

As Ryan slowly got to his feet, he made another futile attempt at reasoning with the prick. "C'mon, man. You heard Logan—the vice-principal, I mean—I gotta meet with him tomorrow—I'm pretty sure he's gonna want to know all about what happened—and if I don't show—they're gonna send someone over here."

AJ laughed, "So what, man—still so totally not on my list of _give a shits_. Social Services shows up—takes you away from your mommy—sends you into foster care—you tell me—where's the fucking downside?"

Ryan had to admit, it was hard to argue with such assholian logic. Especially when the specific asshole in question was juiced up on the meth, high on the blow, or otherwise altered by whatever the fuck the narcotic was that was serving as AJ's flavor of the day.

Despite himself, Ryan was starting to get pissed. It's not like he wasn't used to getting knocked around for, well, for dubious reasons, but this was ridiculous. Even a prick of this enormously obtuse magnitude should know that Ryan Atwood wasn't exactly the prototypical _gangsta_—or weapons dealer—or whatever the fuck it was that AJ thought he'd done with the gun.

"This is bullshit!" Ryan said, suddenly overcome by the irritation and the annoyance that accompanied the absolute certainty that AJ wasn't going to listen to reason. He was secure in the knowledge that there was nothing he could do or say to get out of the situation unharmed—and the fact that he'd done absolutely nothing wrong to deserve this niggled at his sense of fairness like an exposed root.

Succumbing to his frustration and anger, Ryan dipped his shoulder and drove it straight into AJ. He caught him off-balance and rushed by—hoping to get out the front door, and out to safety. He was absolutely sure that if he could leave the house, he'd be in the clear—because he could definitely beat AJ in a straight-up foot race.

Not that he got the chance to find out, since AJ recovered before Ryan was able to throw back the deadbolt. AJ grabbed him by the shoulders, spun him around and punched him. Ryan fell heavily to the ground again. This time, AJ didn't wait for Ryan to stand. Instead, he reached down, grasped Ryan's t-shirt in one hand and a shoulder in the other, and forcefully lifted him off the floor as he simultaneously propelled him towards the kitchen. Ryan was forced into a semi-crouching position as he tried to break away from AJ's hold and to stand upright. Almost too late, he realized that AJ was going to run him head first into the kitchen wall. Fortunately, Ryan was able to turn, so that the brunt of the impact was absorbed by his left shoulder.

When he saw AJ pull back his boot, Ryan scooted back so that he was lying on his side, his back pressed to the wall behind him. He drew his knees up, tucked his face into his forearms and covered his head with both hands. AJ held onto the kitchen divider with both hands for balance and leverage as he repeatedly landed well-aimed blows to Ryan's kidneys, buttocks and thighs.

Finally, AJ stopped, leaned down and roughly pulled Ryan up to a sitting position. Ryan kept his arms up—protecting his face and head.

"Drop 'em." AJ ordered.

Ryan didn't move.

"Drop your fucking hands and we can end this." AJ said, as he placed another kick that landed on Ryan's side—halfway between his hip and his shoulder. "It's your call, hotshot."

Ryan tentatively moved his arms away from his face and placed his hands on the floor—bracing himself. His head was thrown back against the wall behind him—and he was watching as AJ huffed and puffed—his breath short from the effort of kicking Ryan's ass—literally.

Ryan briefly entertained the encouraging thought that AJ just might drop dead of a heart attack. He mused that it'd be a hell of an epitaph. One Ryan would gladly write:

_Here lies AJ Fuck-wit—Kicked My Ass, then Kicked the Buck-it_.

"Something funny, man?" AJ wheezed.

Ryan shook his head slowly, still not lifting it from the wall behind him. He stayed silent, but made sure that any semblance of a smile was long-gone.

"Here's what's gonna happen," AJ explained carefully, like he was talking to a really slow 6-year-old "You've got till I get home to put the pot and the gun back."

"I don't have your shi—." Ryan's protestation was cut off with a downward punch—to the same cheek he was sure that AJ had shattered earlier. The pain of the blow took his breath away—and he struggled for a few seconds—reminding himself to draw air in—hold on to it—and then to let it out. Kind of like smoking.

Shit. Maybe AJ was right—he had been knocked stupid.

"You don't come up with the gun or the weed? Well, then you owe me fifty bucks for the weed—two hundred for the gun." AJ continued—still enunciating each syllable as he was speaking with an incredibly dimwitted child.

"Where the hell am I gonna get two-fifty?"

"Not my problem." AJ shrugged, then backhanded Ryan across the face. "You've gotta week. Make it work—or I'll make you unrecognizable."

AJ turned and walked out of the house, leaving the front door open. A gesture Ryan couldn't help but think was a deliberate reminder of how he'd tried to flee—and hadn't succeeded. Ryan wiped the back of his right hand across the left corner of his mouth and looked down at the angry smudge of red that he'd tracked across it. Noticing that his white t-shirt was already ruined by several irregularly spaced and shaped droplets of blood, he picked it up by the hem and gingerly lifted it up over his head, swiping it across his chin, before putting it to the corner of his mouth and applying pressure.

After several minutes, Ryan stood and crossed the small room to the front door. He slammed it closed with as much force as his aching body would allow—then kicked it a couple of times for good measure. He was on his way to the bathroom to assess the damage, when he noticed that his own door was open.

Through the gaping doorway, he saw that his bedroom was thoroughly tossed. AJ had pulled his drawers out of the bureau—left them upside down—Ryan's clothing scattered everywhere. He'd even pulled the covers off the mattresses—and pulled both mattresses off the bed.

Ryan entered his bedroom and started cleaning up—one handed—since he was still bleeding pretty heavily from the corner of his mouth, where his lip had split from a combination of contact with AJ's knuckles and the tearing on his own teeth. He looked at the _Maxims_ AJ had discovered between the mattresses—and angrily tossed them away in the wastebasket. They weren't going to do much for him anymore—tainted as they were by AJ's discovery—and the total desecration of his room. Ryan was sure that he had a pretty good idea of how people felt when their homes—or their cars—were burglarized. The sense of intrusion—violation—defilement—as if everything had to be washed—sanitized—before he could feel comfortable again with his own possessions. Comfortable in his own bedroom.

Resisting the strong impulse to just lie down and let sleep overtake him, Ryan made his way to the bathroom—cleaned himself up the best he could—pulled on a clean t-shirt—and left the house.

There was somewhere he had to go—someone he had to talk to. The one person he could think of who might have taken the gun—the one person crazy enough—or impulsive enough—to steal something from AJ without even thinking of the consequences to himself—to his mother—or to Ryan.

He had to find Trey.

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

Okay, so here's what happened: I didn't know where Trey lived (you know, on account of the restraining order and everything)—**overnighter** knew where he lived and agreed to tell me. But then **overnighter** started having a week from hell—and she held out on me.

Meanwhile, there's Ryan standing outside the HoT—all beat up and exaggerated puppy dog eyes and shit—and quite frankly I didn't know what to do with him, so I stuck him on a bus just to get him the hell out of there so I wouldn't have to babysit.

But, then **overnighter**'s week didn't improve and there's Ryan still sitting on a bus to nowhere—and, well, I kind of had to start poking at him. I can't. Not. Really, I've tried.

Blame **overnighter**, y'all—this chapter wouldn't have happened at all if she'd have just let me know where Trey lived.

And, of course, thanks to **overnighter** and to the indefatigable **crashcmb** for their invaluable suggestions, help and beta-ing. Truly amazing, the both of them.

Disclaimer: I own nothing but Paulo and whatever mistakes remain, since I couldn't help but play with it some more.

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**_Bang _**

_**Chapter Two**_

Ryan was sitting, hunched forward, with his forearms resting lightly on the top of his thighs—his eyes cast downward, looking at, but not really focusing in on, the space between his feet. Although he was certain that at least some of his dozen or so fellow passengers must be throwing an occasional inquisitive look in his direction—if not staring outright—he was determined not to confirm his theory. The last thing he wanted to do was to make eye contact with anyone—inadvertently or otherwise. He was in no mood to deal with the curiosity, disgust or even pity reflected in the eyes of strangers.

He knew what they saw—a kid, battered, bloody and bruised—and he knew what they thought—a two-bit street punk, fresh from a fight; a hapless loser, jumped and beaten for chump change; a junkie, unable to make payment on a borrowed hit; or even a street kid, used, abused and jacked up by a deadbeat john. The pathetic thing was, none of those guesses was all that far from reality. He didn't think he could stand to see _that_ in their eyes, either.

It was a short ride to his brother's apartment, not even five miles across town, but the bus driver wasn't making it easy on him—the way he erratically jammed down on the gas pedal, only to change his mind and immediately slam his foot on the brakes—the bus slowly lurching, hissing and squealing its way through the crowded city streets. At first, Ryan tried to fight against getting tossed about—a tactic he quickly aborted when it became apparent that every single muscle required for that particular feat was freshly bruised and begging for mercy.

Not that his next experiment—going with the flow—did much for him, either. He swayed along for about a minute, thinking he'd figured out how to get to Trey's in minimal pain, only to be launched completely out of his seat during one particularly effective attempt at rapid deceleration—his already sore shoulder driving painfully into the metal backing of the row of seats less than a foot in front of him. A slight groan escaped from his lips before he could contain it—further embarrassing him—and eliciting what he thought was a sympathetic cluck from the row behind.

Desperate to survive the short trip relatively intact—or at least as intact as when he'd first boarded the bus—he finally gave up and stood, edging his way down the narrow aisle—still without really lifting his eyes, or focusing them on anything in particular. The pole by the back door was just a couple of feet away when the driver suddenly jerked the bus hard to the left—and into the flow of traffic to avoid a parked car. To the accompaniment of rubber squealing against asphalt and the cacophony of horns bleating in several different registers all at once, Ryan was thrown off balance—and landed squarely in the lap of a woman who was sitting in the handicapped seats.

"Sorry," he mumbled, extricating himself from her lap as quickly and as gracefully as the situation would allow. As he pushed back from the seat—and from her—he felt something jab him hard in the left arm. He looked down and saw the woman draw her hand back. She was holding a knitting needle—pointed downward—in a tightly closed fist.

Ryan looked down at his bicep, saw the angry red mark that the needle had left on his skin, and then looked at the woman with a mixture of shock and bewilderment. She made some more stabbing motions with the needle, bringing it up and down quickly—choppily—a few times in the space between them.

"Get away from me," she shrieked, her voice shrill and panicked. There was obviously something very wrong with her.

_Gladly_, Ryan thought, backing away warily and stopping only when he felt the metal of the pole against his back—reaching behind and gripping it with both hands—watching for the crazy lady to pounce again. And pounce she did. The woman jumped to her feet—still brandishing her unlikely weapon—gestured it in his direction—and screamed at him—over and over—to stay away from her.

Ryan felt his face and his ears flush red as it became apparent that he had the attention of every single person on the bus—the driver included. The bus slid to an angry, squealing stop in the middle of the block—and the back door opened with a hiss. The driver pushed himself up from behind the wheel, mopped his profusely sweating brow, and lumbered down the aisle. He stopped a few feet away from the hysterical woman, who was still jabbing the needle haphazardly in Ryan's general direction.

The driver sighed heavily, looked straight at Ryan and pointed out the door, "Off!"

"She just stabbed me," Ryan protested, giving the driver a look of sheer disbelief and holding his arm up to display his latest injury.

"_Off_!" The driver repeated, more insistently.

"Look at him—he's bleeding all over the place—he's throwing himself on people—he's _bleeding_ on people—he spreading the AIDS—he gave me the AIDS—I have _the AIDS_!" the woman was wailing and crying hysterically now.

"I fell into her when the bus jerked forward," Ryan tried to reason with the driver. "It's not like I did it on purpose."

"Listen, you little punk-assed piece of crap—I ain't asking you twice. Get the fuck off my bus—_now_—or I'll call the cops and have your ass tossed right into the back of a fucking cruiser."

"Are you fucking kidding me?"

Ryan was utterly dumfounded that the driver was siding with the woman.

But, that's exactly what he was doing and, when the driver took another menacing step towards him, Ryan immediately conceded. After being beaten up, stabbed and threatened by three entirely different breeds of batshit crazy in just over the course of an hour—he just didn't have it in him to put up much of a fight. Not against an opponent who stood well over six feet tall, weighed at least 250 lbs., and had the ability to land his ass in juvie at the press of a button on his handset.

Ryan started to gingerly make his way down the bus' rubber-matted steps. But, apparently, he wasn't moving quickly enough for the driver, who grabbed him painfully by his injured shoulder—the same one that had recently met with both his kitchen wall, and the metal back of a bus seat with some force—and helped him out of the bus.

"Let go of me, you fat fuck!" Ryan shouted, just as the man let go, propelling him into the car that was parked a few feet away. Ryan's attempt at turning his body mid-flight failed—and he hit the car with his left side, the most damaged part of his body, before crumpling to the ground in an entirely undignified heap.

As he picked himself up off the asphalt, he heard the driver talking to the knitting needle nutjob, gently soothing "Judy" back into her seat—reassuring her that she was going to be okay—that there was no blood on her—that she hadn't caught _the AIDS _from _that little thug_.

Although it wasn't much, Ryan took some satisfaction from the fact that the carefully folded dollar bill that he'd deposited into the fare box was torn—useless—its matching half still tucked safely inside his pocket for the ride home. Hell, if AJ was holding a two hundred fifty dollar chit cocked and aimed at his head like a loaded weapon, Ryan sure as shit wasn't going to throw away a buck-fifteen for a fucking bus ride.

Setting off in the direction of his brother's apartment, Ryan tried to ignore the constant throb of pain still radiating from just below his left eye—though disregarding it wasn't particularly easy, especially since the pounding seemed to bizarrely change rhythm and provide percussion to whatever song flitted—however briefly—through his head.

Luckily, the walk seemed to do him some good. It loosened up his muscles and stopped them from screaming quite so loudly. By the time he arrived at Trey's building, the thought of climbing the four flights to his brother's door was a decidedly less daunting task than the Herculean feat he'd imagined while being tossed around just minutes before.

As he climbed the crumbling concrete of the front stoop and reached towards the apartment building's front door, he was startled by a shadowy form, descending the interior stairs. Ryan shrank back, despite himself, and moved out of the path of the quickly approaching figure. The man slammed open the door and charged out of the building without even glancing in Ryan's direction, leaving behind a putrid cloud of odor in his wake—a pungent and unpleasant mixture of beer, b.o. and diesel oil. As Ryan watched the man jump down the last three steps of the stoop and head towards a brown Monte Carlo SS lowrider that was parked at the curb, he recognized what it was about the stranger that made his heart stop for just a second—what it was that made him startle.

The guy looked like AJ, or rather, he looked a bit like a younger version of his mother's boyfriend—in dress, demeanor and in stature. It wasn't that the guy was particularly tall—he wasn't. Hell, AJ wasn't either. But, like AJ, the guy still managed to look menacing—with his overdeveloped biceps prominently and purposefully displayed in a black shirt with cut-off sleeves torn off at the shoulder, a tight black t-shirt underneath. Unlike AJ's modified pompadour, though, this man's greasy dark hair was tied back in a ponytail. He was scowling and muttering to himself—clearly pissed off.

Ryan managed to pull his gaze away from the stranger just long enough to focus in on, reach out, and grab the door before it could click locked—not that he was sure that it would. Sometimes the latch worked—most times it didn't. But, he didn't want to give Trey the benefit of a buzz or the warning of an announcement before he showed up at his door.

When Ryan finally reached his brother's landing, he stopped and gave himself a chance to recover from the climb. The four flights up weren't too bad and he took his time in ascending. But even so, he was sore, winded and flushed. There wasn't much he could do about the sore—but he figured that the winded and the flushed could be alleviated by a few minutes of rest. So, he leaned his shoulders and head back, closed his eyes—listened to the sounds of a television through the apartment's thin outer wall—and waited for the throbbing in his cheek to subside at least a little.

Finally, when he was about as ready as he was ever going to be, Ryan pushed back from the wall, crossed the last few steps to his brother's door, knocked loudly, and waited to see who answered. He could never be sure which incarnation of Trey would appear these days. His brother was usually strung out—sometimes tense, jumpy and wired— sometimes mellow, with a thick voice and slow to react—sometimes violent, angry and slurring—all depending on his drug or drink of choice.

"_Hey, Ry_."

Christ, he could hear his brother's voice in his head before Trey even answered the door. Not that it took a genius to predict how this particular confrontation was going to go down.

Trey always answered the door the same way—with a wary _hey_, even as Ryan could see the wheels start to turn in his head—hear the caution and the hesitation in his voice—as his brother searched his visitor's face and tried to figure out just how much he knew about whatever the hell it was that Trey was up to.

And Trey was always up to something. _Always_. Something sketchy, something illegal—something he didn't want anyone to know about. He had the Atwood knack for taking the low road, always looking for a shortcut, scheming for a way to get a quick buck or instant gratification.

AJ's favorite phrase to describe Trey these days was "_that squirrelly little motherfucker_" and, as much as Ryan hated to admit it—at least as of late—the description hit a little too close to home.

So, Trey would open the door, play the _Hey, Ry_ card—take his time—and concoct whatever lie he thought he needed to absolve himself entirely from taking responsibility for the latest situation he'd gotten himself into.

Hell, the _Hey, Ry_ wasn't even a greeting. It was a question. Trey's voice always lilted upwards at the end of its delivery—a subtle prompt for Ryan to open the conversation—all the better for Trey to be able to discern what Ryan already knew—and to refine whatever cock and bull story he was fabricating in order to divert the blame from himself.

And if that failed? Shit. Well, then there was always the _Atwood luck_ to fall back on. The infamous black cloud that hung over the family—the one that had taken up residence well before their dad had been shipped off to Corcoran—before they'd moved to Chino—before their mother had climbed into the bottle and started bringing home a string of bad boyfriends, almost all of them ranging from lousy to—well, to AJ—and before their mother had started putting her boyfriends in front of her boys.

Their father had always blamed the _Atwood luck_ for every downward twist of fate—big and inconsequential alike—externalizing the reasons for their lousy situation in life. It was a trait his older son had clearly inherited—carried on the same gene that predisposed him to their father's wiry build, his dark hair, his dark eyes—and his propensity to fuck up royally and repeatedly—either in spite of or because of himself.

But knowing his brother inside and out—knowing _exactly_ how Trey was going to react upon answering his persistent knocking—well, it didn't really do Ryan much good. Or any good at all. Because his brother would react in the exact same way if he had taken AJ's gun or if he hadn't. Even if he didn't take the gun, Trey would be hiding some other transgression—petty or monumental. And he'd lie like hell to protect his secret—whatever the fuck his secret was.

When Trey didn't open the door immediately, Ryan knocked harder—more insistently. He wasn't going to give up. He could hear the television. There was somebody home.

"C'mon, Trey, just open the fucking door," he called out, wearily.

"_Jesus Christ_, man—take the fuck off—I mean, seriously—I'm like two seconds away from calling the cops on your motherfucking ass—I already told you he ain't here—and I don't know where the fuck he is!"

The door opened mid-knock to reveal Trey's roommate, Paulo. He was holding an empty forty upside down and by the neck, his wrist cocked, ready to use the bottle as a weapon. Surprised when the door was suddenly flung inward, Ryan almost fell forward into the apartment, but recovered rapidly. He took two quick steps back, ducked his head, put both hands up, crossed them at the wrists, stuck his palms out, and tried to look as non-threatening as possible.

Paulo was a big man. Twenty-one or twenty-two—a couple of years older than Trey, anyway. He was half Greek, half African-American—a well developed 6'2"—with a muscular, athletic build, light brown skin, and preternaturally pale blue eyes. Like a husky—or a malamute—but cross-bred with a shark, maybe. Because they were dead eyes—eyes that never showed emotion—at least not that Ryan had ever seen. In short, he wasn't a guy Ryan would ever choose to fuck with—he wasn't a guy anyone would choose to fuck with.

Well, anyone but Trey.

Ryan had once seen Trey overtake the much bigger man at Reggie's, the local pool hall and bar. It was just a stupid fight over a girl, but both men were drunk—maybe even a little bit high—pissed off and looking for the release that fighting would give them, especially since they weren't going to get any release from the girl. She'd left long before, fed up and disgusted with the both of them.

The fight ended with both men on the floor—Trey behind Paulo and holding a pool cue against the much larger man's throat—the bigger man struggling to breathe—even as he tried to throw himself back on Trey—tried to break Trey's hold on the cue—tried to crush him—while simultaneously attempting to prevent his own throat from collapsing. Trey was holding the stick tight against Paulo's carotid artery—his roommate's eyes rolling back—still freakishly not displaying any emotion—but revealing entirely too much white. Several patrons were yelling at Trey to let go, but no one jumped in to help. Paulo was getting weaker and weaker—resisting less and less—till Trey suddenly released him and stood over his roommate, cussing him out—spewing a quick succession of expletives without ever raising his voice—before breaking the cue over his knee, throwing the shattered pieces at Paulo's prone, gasping form and leaving the bar.

Ryan'd been surprised that the two had continued living as roommates—what with the one having almost killed the other. But they had—and the incident at the bar was never mentioned between them again—at least as far as Ryan knew.

"Oh, hey, Ryan," Paulo said, his voice softening. He peered down the hallway in both directions and confirmed that the coast was clear—put the bottle down and held it tightly against his body.

"What's up?" Ryan asked.

"Nothing. I just—I just thought you were someone else." Paulo started tapping the forty against his leg, rhythmically, still agitated.

"That guy who just left—who is he?"

"Who—what? The geared-up little greaseball, you mean? I dunno, man—just another crazy motherfucking piece of shit your brother tracked home on the bottom of his shoe."

"He was here for Trey?"

"Yeah." Paulo still tapped the forty and Ryan was only slightly surprised when the persistent pounding in his cheek adopted Paulo's beat.

"What's he want?"

"The fuck if I know." Paulo shrugged. "We didn't exactly conversate. He's looking for Trey—Trey ain't around—what're you doing here, anyway?"

"I guess the same thing as that other guy."

"You're looking for Trey?" Paulo looked surprised. "Here? Naw, man—your brother ain't here anymore—as in, he moved out about two weeks ago. He couldn't make rent—not on what he's earning, and what he's gotta pay every month on that plea he copped. I thought—I mean—he didn't tell you?"

"No," Ryan shook his head, "but it's not like he moved home, and he hasn't been by in a couple of weeks—so I haven't seen him in a while. You have any idea where he's staying?"

"Yeah, he's crashing with a couple of guys from the garage. Johnny—um—Higuera—and—uh—Charlie—_shit_, Charlie something or another—he's another taco-bender—Martinez—Morales—Muniz—I dunno—some shit like that—"

"Where?"

"Some squat off Darby—in the upper numbers."

Great. Not only was it even further away, but in the worst fucking part of town—they didn't call it Upper Fucking Darby for nothing. Typical. Just when he thought it couldn't get any worse.

"He still working at the garage over on Shreveport?"

Paulo shrugged.

"As far as I know—or, at least he was last time I saw him—uh—a little over a week ago, I think it was—you never know with Trey, though—scrawny little motherfucker's got a nasty combination of mouth and temper on him—and he don't always know when it's best to just shut the fuck up."

"Tell me something I don't know." Ryan sighed.

Paulo leaned over and playfully punched Ryan's left shoulder—his thrice injured shoulder. Ryan somehow managed not to wince, flinch, or otherwise reveal the pain that shot right up, and into the back of his neck.

"Yeah, I guess you'd know better than the rest of us," Paulo conceded.

Although Ryan knew he could argue otherwise—seeing as his brother had never actually come close to strangling _him_ into a state of nonexistence—there wasn't much of a point.

"Not that it matters much," Paulo continued, when Ryan hesitated, "he don't work Thursdays."

"You got a phone number for him?" Ryan wanted—he needed—to confront Trey in person, to judge his subtle reactions for himself, but he had to find a way to get there—and he was quickly running out of options.

Paulo shook his head.

"I don't think they got a phone—and I'm pretty sure Trey's cell's been cut off. I been punching his digits all week—trying to let him know about that greasy little cholo motherfucker who keeps coming by—but I ain't been getting nothin' but dead air."

Ryan sighed. If he timed it right, he could get about three quarters of the way to Trey's new neighborhood on the #7 bus, and walk the rest of the way before it got dark. Or he could suck it up, admit that he was in over his head, and call someone—Eddie or Arturo, probably—for a goddamned ride. But that would require an explanation—and Ryan just wasn't up to doing much explaining—he wasn't a good enough liar to come up with a plausible alternative reason as to why he was battered and desperate to find his brother—and he sure as shit wasn't about to admit to the truth.

"I don't know the address, but I'm pretty sure I could find it. You want I should give you a lift?"

It was the first fucking break Ryan had caught all day, but even as the relief coursed through him, he tried to keep his face impassive. He'd learned the hard way that, when dealing with Trey's crowd, it was always best to keep his cards held tightly to his chest—and that showing any kind of real emotion could be a very dangerous thing.

"That'd be great, thanks," he accepted, even while shrugging, and feigning indifference.

"Not a problem." The big man tilted his head sideways and seemed to look Ryan up and down for the first time. "You look like you could use the help. What happened to you, anyway—you get into a fight or something?

"_Or something_ sounds just about right," Ryan muttered, despite himself.

"Yeah, okay. It's none of my business—I get it. Just let me grab my keys. I'll meet you out front."

Ryan descended the stairs, exited the building and sat on the stoop, waiting for his ride to appear. A few minutes later, Paulo did—

"C'mon, kid, the Duster's around the corner." Paulo didn't break stride as he moved past Ryan and hustled down the steps. He carried a denim jacket—unseasonably heavy for the hot spring day—and, as Ryan rose to his feet and watched Paulo shrug it on, he couldn't help but notice the conspicuous bulge in the small of the big man's back—couldn't help but wonder why Paulo was packing—couldn't help but contemplate where Paulo'd gotten the gun—and couldn't help but think that maybe his brother's former roommate hadn't been entirely straight with him about the last time he'd seen Trey.

_**TBC**_


	3. Chapter 3

I own nothing, but my everlasting gratitude to **overnighter** for setting the scene (or, scenes, really). She is truly amazing!  
Anything that is remotely good about this chapter is hers. The sucky parts are mine.

A second and equal thanks to **crashcmb**, the best beta in the business.

I give you chapter three--the one in which we finally meet up with our intrepid hero. Oh, and the chapter where **overnighter** wouldn't let me throw a socket wrench at Ryan! Even though I really, really wanted to.

Place names are completely made up for my own amusement.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Chapter 3

Ryan leaned back in the passenger seat of the old Plymouth junker, tilted his head slightly and fixed his gaze out the window as Paulo slipped the car into gear and pulled away from the curb. Wearing a seatbelt wasn't an option, since the metal tongue had been cut off, the black strap hanging, looped through the bracket, its frayed end circled around the belt and tied off in a rough knot.

"You're gonna wanna put down the window—this piece of shit's got no air."

Ryan rolled his head in Paulo's direction and Paulo continued, gesturing to the empty space the radio had once occupied, "Oh, and no tunes. Some motherfucker broke in last week."

"That sucks," Ryan empathized, his voice sounding thin and strained to his own ears.

"Tell me about it, man. It was pretty sweet, too—I just put it in a coupla months ago."

"Yeah, I remember," Ryan nodded, slightly.

"How's that?"

"Trey gave me a lift home from Reggie's—I dunno—three, maybe four weeks ago."

"Is that so?" Although Paulo's voice didn't noticeably change in tone or register, Ryan knew, without a doubt, that he'd just managed to rat out on his brother. A transgression for which Trey was probably going to kick his ass, no matter how inadvertent the slipup had been.

"I thought—I mean—Trey drives this all the time, doesn't he?"

_Fucking great_! Now he'd just managed to dig his brother into an even deeper hole through his total and utter verbal fuckeptitude.

"Yeah, he did. _Did_, as in used to. He got picked up about four months ago on a 420. He wasn't driving, but it was his car, and the dumbass agreed to a suspended license as a part of his plea. How do you not know this?"

Ryan shrugged, "Trey hasn't been around much lately—and when he has? Well, he hasn't said a whole lot about what's goin' on with him."

"Well, all's I gotta say is—if your brother's the reason my ride gets impounded, he's a dead man, and that ain't a threat, it's an actualization." Paulo's words hung heavy in the air around them. Any other day, they would have passed right through Ryan's filters. Today, they snagged, sounding strangely ominous, thanks in no small part to the presence of the gun wedged firmly between Paulo's ass and the back of his seat.

After a few minutes of driving in silence, Paulo spoke again, his thoughts apparently never straying far from Trey, the car, or the missing stereo.

"You wanna hear the most fucked up thing about all of this, though? The most fucked up thing about someone jacking my shit?"

Ryan shrugged again, noncommittally.

"The face plate wasn't even in here," Paulo's short laugh was completely devoid of humor. "You tell me, what's the punk-assed little thieving piece of shit gonna do with a useless radio?"

"It doesn't make a whole lot of sense," Ryan agreed.

"Naw, you're right, it makes no fucking sense, no fucking sense at all. Just like it makes no fucking sense that he only took one CD, just one motherfuckin' CD, even though I musta' had twenty in here," Paulo was shaking his head in disbelief, tinged with anger.

Not knowing exactly how he was expected to respond, Ryan chose to keep his mouth shut. After a couple of seconds, Paulo continued anyway, "I'm talkin'—I got Eminem, Everclear, Korn, a whole bunch of other shit, and the sumbitch takes off with one lousy disc and a trash-assed piece of shit useless radio."

"What _did_ he take?" Ryan finally asked, when Paulo paused again.

"_Trial by Fire_, dude—I mean out of all those CD's, who the fuck's gonna take that piece of crap?"

"I like Journey," Ryan offered, and immediately wished he could take it back, considering how lame it sounded, even to himself.

"Yeah, I figured as much, so does your brother." Paulo still stared out the front windshield, lightly tapping on the steering wheel, to a tune only he could hear, "It was his fucking CD."

Of course it was. Paulo didn't exactly look like the type who'd rock out to Journey. Not that Trey particularly did either. But Ryan knew the reason behind Trey's affinity for the 70's band, and for that album in particular. It was the same reason Ryan liked them, even though he wasn't much into music otherwise. But, Journey, and more specifically, that album, _Trial by Fire_, was one of the last tangible reminders that the brothers had of their father before he was sent upstate, and it played a dominant role in one of a handful of shared memories that wasn't otherwise tainted by one of their dad's more serious vices—alcohol, drugs, violence, or apathy—that, either singly or in combination, seemed to tinge most of their other childhood recollections.

They had still been living in Fresno, in the little brick house that their father bought when he was still working full-time at the factory. It had been about a year since he'd been able to pick up a full shift, with the downsizing and the layoffs—hell, he'd been a lot luckier than most to hang in there as long as he did—but, he'd been painting houses and doing some roofing on the side and the money was coming in fairly regularly. Their mom was working the breakfast shift at a local diner, and she'd mostly confined her drinking to the weekends in honor of the early-morning hours. There was food on the table for breakfast and dinner, even if the boys had to fix it themselves, and it had been months since the cops were called to the Atwood household for any reason.

Trey and he were sitting on the porch steps with their gloves, waiting for Danny and Chris McCauley, the 10-year-old twins from around the corner, to pick them up for a game of stickball in the field by the overpass. Their mother was sitting on the old metal porch swing, sipping her first Friday-night cocktail, a Seven and Seven, and actually attempting to talk to the boys about their day at school. Ryan was answering for both of them since Trey had recently taken a full-body plunge into a particularly surly adolescence, adopting an attitude that was equal parts anger, resentment and aloofness. The relationship between Trey and both of his parents had deteriorated to the point where he seldom spoke to, or even acknowledged, either one of them voluntarily.

Ryan remembered the dull clink of ice cubes as his mother caught sight of his father and sat up, abruptly.

"Boys! Ry—hey, is that your father coming up the street?" she asked, clearly startled. It was barely past five o'clock, entirely too early for their father to be coming home on a Friday afternoon. Friday's were payday and their dad usually stopped off for drinks at the Dew Drop Inn on the outskirts of town, the Oak Table, a few blocks away, or even the Grog, if there was a band playing. Rarely did he come straight home.

Ryan immediately stiffened, and in the charged space between them, he felt his brother tense up, too. Their father coming home this early on a Friday was never a good sign. It meant he'd lost a job, or a shift, or had copped early, and was coming home drunk or stoned on whatever he'd been able to find that was going for a dime a bag out on the street. Once in a while, it meant that he'd won at the track, or in a back-alley dice game, but unexpected pocket-weight wasn't exactly good news, either. All that meant was that their parents were about to embark on a weekend bender, and that never boded well for the boys.

His father was swinging a plastic bag as he walked up from the corner bus stop, whistling a tune Ryan didn't recognize.

"Go see what's he got in his hands," Dawn called out softly, uneasiness filling her voice.

Trey had glanced at Ryan out of the corner of his eye and shrugged, punching his hand idly into the pocket of his glove, and Ryan knew that he sure as shit wasn't going anywhere, least of all straight into the lion's mouth. Ryan glanced back at his mother, hoping that she'd change her mind, but she just nodded in agreement with herself and made a little shooing gesture with both hands.

Letting out a soft, little sigh of defeat, Ryan dropped his glove and reluctantly pushed himself up. He jumped down the remaining steps of the stoop and broke into a slow jog when he hit the front walk. He trotted up the sidewalk and met his father about halfway up the block. His dad was still whistling jovially.

"Hey, Ry-guy," his father said, tousling his hair with the hand that held the plastic bag. Ryan sniffed the air carefully, but all he could smell was oil paint and turpentine and his father's Juicy Fruit gum. There was no alcohol evident under the gum's sweet scent. No drug-sweat.

"Hey, Dad," he said, finally. "How come you're home so early?"

His father raised his voice so that it carried to the porch.

"I've got a surprise for your mother. Well, for all of us, really."

That didn't make Ryan feel much better, since in his short lifetime, experience had taught him that surprises weren't necessarily good things. In fact, they rarely were. But, his mother was smiling now and Trey was looking at them curiously, still pounding his fist into his glove, over and over.

"Here, Ry," his father said, ruffling Ryan's hair again. "Give this to your mom." He handed Ryan the bag.

As Ryan bounded up the steps, Trey reached up and snatched the bag from his hand. He peeked into it, his face broadcasting his disappointment and disgust.

"Jeez, Dad. Some great freaking surprise this is—it's just a lousy tape."

Dawn came to the edge of the porch, smiling nervously and twisting her ring.

"What lousy tape is it?" she directed her question at Trey, but kept her eyes on her husband.

"_Hey_!" his father said in his serious voice—the one that always sent shivers up Ryan's spine and usually made both boys scatter like a couple of cockroaches caught under an unexpected light—but he was still smiling, and the boys remained frozen where they were. "Do _not_ insult Journey."

"Frank, what did you go and do that for?" Their mother scolded playfully, a smile now in her voice. "You know we can't afford—"

His father cut her off by grabbing her around the waist and swinging her down from the porch, "Relax, woman, it was on sale. Besides, it's their first new album in a decade. I couldn't exactly_ not_ buy it."

"Is _Faithfully_ on it?" Dawn asked, expectantly, then clarified for the boys' sake. "That's the song your dad and I danced to at our wedding."

"No, hon, it's new stuff," their father's attention was still locked in on his wife, so he missed it when Trey rolled his eyes at his little brother, mouthed the word "_losers_," and lifted his right hand to his forehead, displaying a fingered "L" for emphasis.

"Journey's first album in ten years, right when things are going so good, it's gotta be an omen, a sign. I think that the old Atwood luck is finally turning around, babe."

He sounded so eager, so hopeful, that Ryan wanted desperately to believe him.

"Now, c'mon, woman, let's give these boys a lesson in real music."

The boys entered the house, trailing behind their parents, unsure of how long the good mood would last. Trey reluctantly skulked off to fetch the battered boombox he kept hidden under their bed, and Ryan went to the kitchen to get his father a beer and to freshen up his mother's drink.

When Ryan came back out to the living room, Trey was sitting on the floor beside the tape player, watching his father carefully as he inserted the new cassette, the plastic remnants of the packaging scattered all around. Dawn had settled into the corner of the couch. Ryan handed her a new drink and, after a brief hesitation, he placed his dad's beer on the coffee table, climbed up and leaned up beside her.

The music started, filling the quiet living room with a hard-driving backbeat. Trey automatically wrinkled his nose and tilted his head to the side, skeptically.

"Dad, dude, this totally sucks—and it ain't got nothin' on Coolio. That much, I can tell you," he said. Their father groaned theatrically and cuffed his older son lightly across the head.

"Have I taught you boys nothing?" he said. "I offer you Journey, the greatest band of all time, and you've gotta compare it to that no-talent gangsta, hip-hop, rap-crap."

As the third song started, a soft ballad, his father took a swig of his beer and stood up abruptly.

"I think they're playing our song," he said, and held out his hand to his wife. Ryan sat up to let his mother go and, without saying anything, Trey came over and plopped down on the couch next to him. The brothers watched, transfixed, as their parents danced clumsily around the room, laughing and grinning.

Less than three months later, their father knocked off a Circle-K at gunpoint and was caught on the surveillance video. The police showed up on a similar Friday night, when their father had once again come home early and unexpectedly, a night in which he had spent the majority of his time sweaty and jumpy, turning quick circles around the living room and stealing surreptitious glances out the front window—briefly pulling up a small corner of the curtain to reveal the black of the night outside, before letting it fall back into place once again.

With his vigilant surveillance, it was surprising that he missed the cops' approach entirely, even if they had killed their headlights a block before the Atwood residence, left their darkened cruisers several houses away, and advanced on the house from the side by cutting across several neighboring lawns. The officers knocked, announced and kicked in the door in rapid succession, entirely too quickly for any of the home's occupants to answer. Two officers came in with guns drawn. There was another on the porch, just to the left of the front doorway—and a fourth covering the back kitchen exit.

Ryan's father had been arrested in the very same living room where he'd so optimistically toasted to the improved Atwood luck and Ryan watched out the front window—his small form silhouetted by the backdrop of the white curtain—as the cops led his father down the steps of the porch and across the small yard, his arms handcuffed securely behind his back. He had held a palm to the cool glass and almost convinced himself that he had seen his father turn back to the house and nod a curt goodbye, even though the nearly impenetrable darkness of the night would have made such an observation impossible.

And, just like that, the fragile threads that had held the Atwood family together snapped, instantly and forever broken.

It was only when the throbbing in his cheek changed its beat again that Ryan became aware that he had completely spaced-out, that he was still staring at Paulo's fingers where they gently rested on the steering wheel, tapping lightly. As Ryan forced his thoughts back to the present, he felt a familiar, prickly heat color his ears, and he slowly turned his head back towards the open window.

_Jesus_! There was a very real possibility that he was maybe just a little bat-guano crazy himself.

The landscape outside Ryan's window turned from mixed use, to industrial, to residential—and then back to mixed use again. It was mainly industrial, but with little pockets of residential housing. Those streets were filled with small, dilapidated one-story houses, each one crappier than the next, and all of them surprisingly cruddier than Ryan's own shitty abode. There were porches collapsed in heaps, and gaping holes in roofs and siding, which were haphazardly patched up with royal blue tarpaulin. There were whole blocks of houses, which he would have sworn were abandoned, but for the telltale signs of the satellite dishes attached to the eaves and the kiddie paraphernalia scattered across the yards.

When Paulo finally turned onto Beachtree, it was no better or worse than any of the others. But, to Ryan, it still felt ominous and sad. Trey's squat was in the middle of the block, with a white clapboard house on one side and a vacant lot on the other. Several high-voltage power wires were suspended directly overhead, attached to the huge metal pyramid standing sentry less than 10 yards away.

The front yard was fenced in with chained-link and two pit bulls were pacing restlessly back and forth across the hard-dirt-packed yard, each attached to a fetter made up of thick, interlocking metal rings, the ends of which were hooked into an iron hoop that was imbedded in a square of concrete that had been poured into the middle of the yard for no other apparent purpose. There was no shade in the empty yard, and the smell of old waste and dog piss was strong through the Duster's open windows.

Trey's house was fronted by a porch, the steps leading up to it were made of plywood, painted white, though most of the paint had blistered, flaked and peeled away years ago. The house was wrapped in cheap siding that had sun-faded to a washed-out, and decidedly ugly, pukish green. The brown border around the doors and windows had rotted through in many places and left huge chunks missing. It gave the framing a mottled, pockmarked effect, since the wood underneath the paint was of a distinctly lighter shade. The windows were all hidden behind thick black security bars, as was the front door. There were several shingles missing on the roof, and those that remained were covered in moss.

Ryan knew that this was where Trey was crashing from the navy blue Impala parked out in front, its hood propped open, and from the familiar, slight, dark-haired figure in the grease splattered white t-shirt and faded blue jeans, torn at both thighs, who was standing up on the curb, bent over the engine-block, holding a socket wrench in one hand and a dirty, oil-stained rag in the other.

As the car slid to a stop next to his brother, Ryan watched how Trey's grip shifted, just a bit, on the wrench to make the tool a more effective weapon, and how he moved, almost imperceptibly, but still achieved his clearly intended result of putting the vehicle's substantial body between himself and the possible threat. Ryan was amazed that Trey could do all of this, while still giving absolutely no other outward appearance that he'd even noticed their presence at all. Hell, Ryan wouldn't even have picked up on Trey's subtle defensive maneuvering, if he hadn't known what to look for.

Paulo held a fingergun sideways out his open window—thumb and forefinger parallel to the ground, and aimed it right at his ex-roommate's head.

"_Bang_," he said, in a soft, cold voice.

Trey didn't even look up. Instead, he just resumed what he'd been doing, lining up the bolt with the socket.

"Nice digs," Paulo noted, when it became apparent that Trey was going to continue to ignore him.

Trey bent down and picked out two other sockets from the tool chest at his feet, tested them on the engine's bolt, found the one that fit, and changed out the socket in the ratchet.

"You'd do best to recognize, you scrawny little bitch."

Paulo's voice was still cold and even and Ryan couldn't tell if he was getting annoyed, or if this was just some type of bullshit macho game the two were playing. Not for the first time since he'd accepted Paulo's offer for a ride, he wondered just how friendly Trey's move-out had been.

Trey let a few more deliberate seconds pass before he verbally acknowledged Paulo's presence.

"What the hell're you doing here, Lennie?"

"I got an extra five bucks, I figured maybe your moms could use the work."

"Two doors down," Trey used the wrench to count off two quick beats, then flicked his wrist towards his left, his head still bowed, attention fully focused on the car, "Just make sure you count your change, that bitch'll stiff ya'."

Ryan felt like he'd been sucker-punched in the stomach. Oh, sure, he'd heard his brother diss their mother a million times before, both in and out of her presence. This time, though? Knowing that Trey was completely unaware that he was there? Somehow—somehow, it just felt wrong. Insulting family in front of family was one thing, but insulting their mother in front of someone else? It was like Trey had broken a sacred family code. And it made Ryan feel sad that the chasm between his mom and his brother was much wider than he'd allowed himself to believe, and that his brother's bitterness towards her was much more than the casual fronting that Ryan'd half-convinced himself was in play.

"Yeah, well, since we're speaking of blowjobs—" Paulo continued, and Trey's complete and utter non-reaction further confirmed that this wasn't the first time he'd allowed this particular brand of trash-talking regarding their mother. "You probably oughta know that that geared-up little coke-head keeps coming by looking for you."

"Who, AJ?"

Ryan was more than a little disappointed in the direction that Trey's mind automatically jumped. It solidified his suspicions, and would have put Trey even further up his list of probable suspects, that is if it was in any way possible to move up from number one—or most wanted.

"Naw, man, not your pops," Ryan stiffened involuntarily at that, and he noticed how the muscles of Trey's neck contracted, even as his brother's face remained impassive. "That other guy, the one running the chop shop down on the corner of Finlee and McCurry, the greasy little pumped-up midget motherfucker—you know, the one who looks like he's been pouring the juice on his Wheaties."

At that, Trey looked up for the first time.

"Yeah? What's he want?" he asked in a flat voice, stepping off the stoop and walking over to the car. He slowed down, just a bit, when he noticed that the car carried a passenger, but broke into an uneasy smile when he saw who it was.

"Oh—hey, Ry," his greeting was nothing, if not predictable. "What're you doing over here?"

"I need to talk to you, Trey," Ryan said, though he was suddenly at a loss as to exactly how he was going to do this.

Trey pulled down the corners of his mouth and shrugged amiably enough, "Yeah, sure."

After Paulo and he skinned palms, Trey leaned into the open driver's side window and caught full view of Ryan's damaged face for the first time.

"Damn, Ry, what's the other girl look like?" he asked, his face dead serious, despite his choice of words.

"Like Bilbo Fucking Badass, only with arms like a gorilla and a face that fucking matches."

Trey couldn't help but grin as he asked, "Shit, man, you remember that?"

"Hell, I'm surprised you do," Ryan observed, since his brother was monumentally wasted and just minutes away from being arrested on the Christmas night that he'd smashed a bottle of whiskey against the side of the house and challenged AJ to a streetfight with similar words.

Trey leaned back, looked upwards and began tapping his fingers lightly on the top of Paulo's window. Ryan could almost hear the gears start up and the wheels begin to turn behind his eyes. A few seconds later, he indicated his decision by jerking his head in the direction of the house, "Hey, Apollo, why don't you land this piece of shit cruiser and both of you can come on inside?"

He backed away from the car when Paulo nodded his agreement and slowly made his way back over to the curb. As Paulo turned into the next driveway, backed out, and pulled behind Trey's car, Ryan's eyes never left his brother. He watched as Trey squatted down next to his toolbox and wiped the rag around the inside of each of the sockets, before carefully replacing them. Trey then shut the lid and locked the box, stood, and walked over to his car, where he disengaged the hood prop and let the hood slam down. He had to do it a couple of times, putting the full weight of his body into the effort before the latch finally caught. Then he started to deliberately wipe his hands on the grimy rag—his head bowed, paying careful attention to his task.

Ryan opened the Plymouth's door carefully. The ride hadn't been very long, but his muscles had stiffened and they began to protest loudly as he got out of the car. He had almost fully extracted himself, when his left leg suddenly gave out under the unexpected sharp pain of a charlie horse that had somehow worked its way deep into his upper thigh, the apparent location of a particularly effective kick from AJ's steel-toed boot. It caused Ryan to fall clumsily against the door—and he wasn't the least bit surprised when he hit his injured left shoulder, yet again.

"_Goddamnit_!"

As the jolt of pain temporarily blurred his vision, he sucked in a long stream of air through gritted teeth. By the time he managed to get himself up onto the curb and shove the car door closed, Trey had sauntered over.

"Jesus, man, you don't look so good."

"Yeah, tell me something I don't know," he spat out, glad that the pain was giving him some of his anger back—he needed something to focus in on if he was going to accuse Trey of stealing a handgun. The fact that his brother may have kicked his ass by proxy was just about as good as anything else that came to mind.

As Trey reached out towards his face, Ryan flinched back, instinctively.

"Trey, _don't_," he warned.

Trey grabbed his chin anyway, and positioned Ryan's face so that he could better examine the left side of his little brother's face.

"Dude, I think the motherfucker mighta busted your cheek."

"I'm pretty sure he did," Ryan muttered. "I think I heard it crack."

"C'mon, Ry, let's go inside, I'll get you some ice." Not waiting for Ryan to respond, Trey turned and took a few steps towards the house, before calling over his shoulder in Paulo's general direction, "Leave the piece in the car."

Ryan watched as his brother went up the front walk to the depressing little house. He had his head down and was moving quickly and purposefully, but Ryan noted that he couldn't resist holding out his left middle finger at the dogs, as they tested their tethers, raised up on their back legs, straining, growling and snapping at him as he walked by, just a few, short feet out of reach.


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer**: I own nothing but the mistakes that remain. The OC and the characters portrayed therein are solely the possession of Josh Schwartz & Co., which is entirely a pity IMO, but…whatever and no one asked for my opinion, anyway.

pets Trey

**Author's Notes**: This is completely AU as Papa!Atwood! is _not_, in fact, played by teh Sorbo. Beta thanks go out to **overnighter** and **crashcmb**. I bow and avert my eyes, whenever I'm in their cyber-presence and I suggest y'all do the same.

This chapter is dedicated to **cereselle**, to whom I promised a belated birthday crack!Winchester!fic!, but this one seemed kinda lonely (sorry, dude, I'm kinda a sucky present-giver)…and to **katwoman76**, who kept reminding me that Ryan was still standing in the middle of the sidewalk in a crappy part of Chino, all beat up and shit. Which? Hee!

It's been a while, so I'm a bit rusty, please be kind.

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The toolbox was heavier than it looked and Ryan gave a slight, involuntary gasp as he struggled—first in an attempt not to pitch forward and unceremoniously face-plant into the concrete—and then to actually straighten up under its weight. A weight, which put unwanted strain on the already excruciating tenderness that comprised the muscles in his stomach and thigh. Ryan was seriously debating whether he'd be able to carry the damned thing the 20-odd feet to his brother's front steps without causing any further damage to himself when Paulo came back from securing the gun in his car and took the box off of him, lifting it easily out of Ryan's right hand.

"You doing okay, man?" Paulo asked, sounding genuinely concerned.

"Yeah, thanks," Ryan replied, grateful for the help. "It's just…I mean, this doesn't look like the best of neighborhoods to be leaving stuff around," he offered, by way of explanation.

"So, as busted up as you are, you're hauling Trey's shit in for him?" Paulo sounded incredulous.

Ryan attempted a shrug, but quickly aborted the effort, grimacing despite himself when a particularly painful stitch surprised him by running all the way up his left shoulder and implanting itself deeply into the back of his neck. _Crap_! He'd just raised his right shoulder, and only slightly at that.

"Damn, Ryan. You sure the two of you are related?"

Ryan forced a tight smile as he nodded his assent. It certainly wasn't the first time he'd been asked _that_ question. Nor, he was sure, would it be the last. After all, he'd played the good one, the quiet one, to Trey's—well, to Trey's utter _fuckupedness_ for so long now that it was hard even for him to remember that there had been a time when Trey hadn't been like this. A time when the difference between the Atwood boys, while readily evident, hadn't been nearly as striking.

Ryan had always been the serious one—quiet and contemplative—more of an observer than a doer. And Trey'd always been—well, Trey'd always been _Trey_—the definition of which was pretty much Ryan's opposite. He'd been born a bona fide smartass, a character trait Ryan was convinced was indelibly imprinted on his DNA, as much a part of his genetic makeup as his darker hair and eyes. A trait that might not have been particularly damaging on its own, but since Trey'd also apparently been born lacking any semblance whatsoever of whatever it was that made most people think twice before executing what was clearly a really, glaringly, ridiculously boneheaded move? Well, it made for a deadly combination.

Deadly—well mostly deadly for Trey, since Trey couldn't _not_ mouth off if the opportunity presented itself. Not even if his life depended on it. A fact Ryan knew with absolute certainty, if only based on the amount of time Trey spent getting the ever-loving crap beaten out of him for opening his mouth at incredibly inopportune moments as a kid. Times when even a brain-damaged manatee would not have been particularly hard-pressed to point out that Trey really _ought_ to have known better.

But, as their father used to like to say, the words "bad" and "idea" had never actually made each other's acquaintance—Hell, they had not once shook hands, waved, nodded in recognition, glanced in the general direction of, or even inadvertently bumped into each other—while rattling around inside of Trey's head.

But, despite Trey's smart-alecky demeanor and his absolute inability to employ even a modicum of impulse control, he'd still been basically a good kid. Or, if not so much a _good_ kid, at least one with a decent heart.

Of this, Ryan was sure. For as long as Ryan could remember, it had been just Trey and him, the two of them against the world.

Their dad had been a mean drunk. He was prone to beating up on the boys and on their mother, especially after getting liquored up; an occurrence that had happened more and more frequently in the years leading up to his arrest. Really, though, even if pressed, Ryan couldn't remember a time when more than a month or so passed without either Trey or him—and sometimes both—getting pummeled by their dad. Trey, mostly, because he was older and more visible. More visible, of course, by virtue of being more audible. Or audible at all.

Ryan figured that whole weeks had gone by, as a child, when—in trying to go unnoticed, trying not to get hit—he might not have said more than a few words in an entire day. Hell, even now he rarely talked, unless directly spoken to. But Trey?

Ryan knew that Trey had probably never been silent for eight straight hours in his entire lifetime…and that included his time asleep. Ryan knew from long experience that Trey was a habitual—and often quite entertaining—sleep-talker. Ryan had been chagrined to learn at an early age that his brother's ability to crack wise had no apparent correlation to his ability to connect to his conscious mind.

Truth be told, though, sometimes the choices Trey made deliberately were as baffling to Ryan as his brother's creative, dreamtime insults. Especially during those rare periods when the house had been quiet for a while.

Ryan could distinctly remember a time when the two of them were hunkered down in their bedroom in the old house in Fresno. They were lying low on a Friday night after their father had come home late from work with his face flushed, his words thick, and his gait just a bit clumsy. The boys had taken cover while their mother and he had argued briefly, but loudly. The fight had ended abruptly when she had stormed out, slamming the door behind.

They'd watched from the window as she'd flung the door of their father's battered pickup open and thrown her purse onto the front seat, climbing in after it. She'd slammed the door, then turned the ignition several times with little success—the engine turning, sputtering, but ultimately failing to catch—and whining in just a slightly higher register with each new attempt. They'd stood at their window, silent, as they waited for their mother to turn the engine for a final time. That final time when her angry twist of the key would offer nothing in return but silence. A silence that would only be broken by a soft, barely audible _click_ of the useless starter. Well that and the slamming of the house's front door a few moments later as their father came flying out, flinging obscenities—if not his fists—at his wife and bringing the neighbors to their windows and the cops to the Atwoods' yard once more.

The boys had released a collective breath when their mother had finally given up, slamming the steering wheel repeatedly with both hands before gripping the top of the wheel, hunching over and laying her forehead on top of her knuckles. They'd continued to watch her shadowy form in silence for a few minutes as she sat alone, shoulders heaving.

An 8-year-old Ryan's first impulse had been to go to her. To climb into the truck. To climb into her lap. To make her feel better. Or at least to try. He'd even reached for the handle at the bottom of the window, braced himself to heave it up and haul himself through, when Trey had grabbed his hand to stop him.

"Don't, Ry."

"Why not, Trey? She's _crying_!"

Trey had dropped Ryan's hand and turned his back to the window.

"That's not what she needs. You're not what she needs," he'd whispered, staring through narrowly slitted eyes at their bedroom door. "Hell, you're not even what she wants."

As Ryan had waited for Trey to continue, he'd followed his brother's line of sight to the only light in the darkened room—that which seeped in from the hallway and forced its way through the cracks around the door, where it had hung unevenly on its hinges ever since the night a few years before when their father had ripped it half off, while chasing after his elder son, who'd badly miscalculated his own speed and unwisely thought that he could outrun his old man and make his escape out the bedroom window, unscathed.

As a result of that battered door, Ryan had been able to hear the television coming from the living room, and even seven years later, he remembered that it had been tuned into a college basketball game. He could call up a vision of his father—sitting on the couch in front of it—just as easily now, standing in front of Trey's house in the very worst part of Chino, as he could then, in their bedroom in a marginally less shitty part of Fresno. He'd be sitting, his feet propped up on the weathered soft pine of the coffee table. Most likely with an open beer and a lit cigarette in hand.

The boys had known even then that, as long as they stayed quiet, the odds were in their favor that he wouldn't come looking for them. There was little need for them to leave the bedroom again that night and Ryan had figured, with eight long years of experience under his belt, there was no real reason why it shouldn't have been just one more night in an unusually long string of nights that they could chalk up as a relative success. No reason at all.

That is, of course, until he asked the question.

"What do you think she wants?" Ryan had asked, keeping his voice a low whisper to match his brother's, and turning his back on the scene in the window behind them as well.

Trey had exaggerated a shrug that was impossible to miss, even in the darkness surrounding them.

"She wants what we all want, Ry. She wants to stop holding her breath and counting the minutes till Mount Assuvius blows."

"What're you talking about?"

Ryan hadn't understood him at all.

"C'mon, Ryan. You know it. I know it. She knows it. Dad hasn't lost it on anyone in a real long while."

"So? Isn't that a good thing?"

Ryan had been confused. He had not yet arrived at the inevitable and disastrous terminus of his brother's train of thought.

"No, it's not a good thing, Ry."

Trey's whisper had sharpened, but he had broken off whatever he was going to say next at the unmistakable _ka-thunk_ of the truck's door opening and closing. The boys had turned and watched as their mother threw the straps of her purse over her shoulder, turned on her heel, strode purposely down the sidewalk, and rounded the corner.

Once she'd disappeared from sight, Trey had turned slowly from the window and trained his hostile stare at the bedroom's door again, this time leaning back, crossing his arms, and resting his ass lightly against the window's low sill.

"He's due," he'd said simply, his voice returning to a normal tone, but jutting his chin towards the door. "Or, I guess what I really mean to say is, one of _us_ is due."

"But, it doesn't have to be now. It doesn't have to be tonight," Ryan had whispered furiously, shaking his head, still desperately trying to hold onto the fleeting hope that the night might not end badly. An exercise that he was quickly finding as frustrating as trying to grab onto an echo. One left by the wisp of a dream. It was as frustrating and as futile.

"Yeah, now. Yeah, tonight," Trey had said matter-of-factly, like it was a foregone conclusion.

"Just think about it, Ryan. Mom just left to get her drink on. Dad's already loaded. He ain't gone all _Bobby Cox_ on any of our asses in what? Three weeks? A month? Longer, even? He's pissed at her. She's pissed at him. He's sitting out there beering it up and waiting for her to come back. And Mom? Well, she'll be at the Grog soon enough, knocking back her '_one-fours_' and seething about how she managed to get knocked up by such a Herculean prick. Twice, even. There's no way this is ending okay, Ry. Not tonight. No fucking way."

Trey had waved his head vaguely in the direction of the bedroom door and then pushed off of the windowsill to take two steps towards the bed, and back again.

"Eventually, Mom's gonna come home tonight. She's gonna come through that door and she's gonna be drunk and she's gonna be pissed off and she ain't exactly gonna be any less stupid. So, she's gonna lay into Dad with whatever shit she's been stewing in for however long she's been bellied-up to the bar slamming down the booze and practicing what she thinks she's got to say to him. But by then, Ry? By then, all Dad's gonna see is…_baby seal_."

He had paused, and then nodded slowly, before he had said, almost to himself.

"Yep. Mom's toast."

Trey's scenario had had a certain, irrefutable logic to it and Ryan had borne witness to the scene his brother had described far too many times for his stomach _not_ to have started twisting itself up with worry. The queasy feeling that he'd had just a few minutes before, when his mother had threatened to kill the truck's engine, had come back with a vengeance, too. He had been sure, however, that unlike that lucky break, there would be very little chance that it would be assuaged at any point again before the night's events had played themselves out to Trey's inevitable conclusion.

That was _the_ one thing that Ryan had been sure of—right on up to and including the moment when he had fallen asleep somewhere on the other side of 1:00 a.m.

When Ryan had been rudely jolted back into consciousness some time later by a loud rapping on the house's front door, the first thing he'd noticed was that, while the bedroom was still dark, it was also being lit in alternating shades of florescent red and blue. So, the cops were there. He'd presumed that he'd somehow managed to sleep through whatever it was that had happened between his parents after his mother had gotten home. Well that, and that at least one of their neighbors wasn't nearly as deep a sleeper as he was.

Ryan had known, from past experience, that the police were required to take his dad in if he'd left a mark on his mom. He'd also known from past experience, that if the ruckus had been loud enough to have garnered the neighbors' attention—loud enough for someone to have called the cops—well, there was little doubt that his mom would be sporting a prominent welt or a handprint, at least, if not a lip, cheek, or nose that was torn and bleeding.

Ryan had thrown back his blanket, swung his legs off the bed, and slipped out, dropping to the floor, before he'd noticed that Trey's bed was empty. Not that it had come as any sort of a surprise, all things considered. He had just hoped that his brother hadn't done anything stupid.

Of course, if he'd really been paying attention, Ryan might also have noticed that the bare wood of the floor was unusually cold beneath his feet. Or that their bedroom window was ajar, its shade raised just enough to reveal what appeared to be a Trey-sized opening. But Ryan had been too preoccupied, trying to hear what was going on in the other room over the suddenly thunderous beating of his own heart.

When he couldn't make out what was happening from his spot hunkered down right inside the bedroom, despite pressing his ear to the sizable, if uneven, crack between the door and the jamb, Ryan had opened the door to the hallway. As he'd walked out and blinked several times to adjust to the brightness, he'd heard the unmistakable sound of a stranger speaking in a stern and authoritative tone. A cop, no doubt.

What had been unsettling, though, was that he hadn't immediately heard his mother. He'd thought that he should hear his mother. She should have been sobbing—or shrieking—uncontrollably, as she usually did, when the cops showed up…begging and pleading that she was okay…that they'd misunderstood…and please…would they please, please, _please_ not drag her husband away. It had been equally unsettling that he hadn't immediately heard his father, either, who should have been shouting, as he usually did—in a voice angry and laced with profanity.

Although Ryan had mentally braced himself before tentatively entering the living room, what he saw once he got there was such a huge disconnect from what he had expected to see that it had taken his brain several seconds to process the scene playing out before him. Once it had, though, it hit him with a physical force and he'd had to fight the sudden urge to run to the bathroom and puke up his twisted guts.

Instead, Ryan had stared at the opened doorway and had yelped a strangled, but concerned, "_Trey_!" before taking another step into the room.

"Ryan…back to bed," his father had tossed over his shoulder, not turning from where he was standing by the front door, a lit cigarette dangling loosely from the fingers of his right hand, held down by his jean-clad thigh, with what must have been close to an inch of ash hanging precariously from its end.

The cop, a large youngish-looking guy with a blond crew-cut, who Ryan hadn't recognized from any of half a dozen previous Atwood interventions in the last several years, had been in the doorway, his right hand resting heavily on Trey's left shoulder. Trey, who had improbably appeared to have his hands cuffed behind his back, was standing still, though his head was angled slightly back, his gaze aimed directly at their father, in the same intense and hostile manner that he'd been glaring at the bedroom door just a few hours before—the very picture of defiance.

Despite his insolent demeanor and the fact that he was much older and bigger than Ryan, what had struck Ryan had been just how vulnerable Trey had looked, standing between the beefy policeman and their father, handcuffed and practically _lost_ inside of an oversized navy blue hooded sweatshirt. Then again, Ryan had had a pretty good idea of what awaited his brother as soon as the cop stepped off their front porch. And the fact that their father had had his hand on the open door, gripping it tightly, bicep straining at the sleeve of his white t-shirt, thick veins standing out blue and corded? Well, it hadn't exactly done much to help settle Ryan's turbulent gut.

The cop had looked from Ryan lurking in the hallway back to his father, before solemnly stating, "He was with a group of other kids, all smoking, drinking, and most likely playing dice in the parking lot behind the Sip & Save. They scattered, but we managed to catch up to your boy here and one other. _He_ can consider himself lucky," the cop had emphasized as he had nodded in Trey's direction. Ryan had wanted to disagree with that statement, but even then, he'd known better than to answer a cop.

"The other kid—we know. He's got a pretty heavy juvenile jacket. He's being taken to baby booking as we speak. His parents will have to figure out how to get him out, though they won't be successful, not till Monday at the earliest. Your kid—well, since he's only just twelve and we haven't run into him before, I'll trust you to take care of this, Mr. Atwood. As I said earlier, I'm willing to make an exception this one time, but if I collar your son again on a curfew—or any other violation—he's not getting another break. These kids he was hanging out with—they're older and every single one of 'em's got a juvie record of some sort. Trust me—you don't want your boy to surround himself with the likes of them."

Their dad had nodded, with an exaggerated gravity—so ridiculously and transparently sycophantic. Frank Atwood, a cop's best friend, all amicable and conspiratorial and…_God…whatever_. Ryan had been surprised, even then, that the cop could keep a straight face after witnessing such unmitigated bullshit. His dad had shifted his cigarette to his left as he reached out and shook the hand that the cop extended.

"Thank you, _Officer_. I appreciate you cutting the kid a break."

At the time, Ryan had thought that there was no way that the cop couldn't tell that their dad was loaded. The red face, the unsteady gaze, the slurring—it was all so painfully obvious. But, it hadn't seemed to—or maybe it had registered, but the cop certainly hadn't appeared to think that it was any big deal. Then, again, the cop hadn't known his father. For all he could tell, Frank Atwood might have been just another harmless working stiff—getting his well-deserved buzz on, on a Friday night, after a rough week of punching the clock.

The cop had nodded curtly, then huffing a bit, he had knelt down behind Trey and pulled his key ring from his belt, flipping through and finding the one he needed.

"Sorry about the cuffs, kid, but my car's got no cage; it's standard protocol."

When he'd finished, he gave Trey a slight shove and Trey had stepped into the house without a backwards glance.

"Hey, kid," the cop had said before making a move to leave. Trey had turned both his body and his insolent glare to the officer, but he hadn't responded, not until their father had given him a quick stinging cuff to the ear.

"Yeah?" he had finally answered, just far enough into the realm of polite to avoid another smack.

"It really is awfully dangerous out there on the streets this time of the night for a kid your age. Those boys you were with—you mess with them, you're gonna get burned. By them—by us—or both. Your dad and me…we're just trying to keep you safe. You do understand that, right? We just want to make sure you don't get hurt."

"Yeah, sure," Trey'd said, giving an embellished eye roll for cop's benefit, still the poster child of pre-adolescent rebellion. Even as he did so, though, he had taken several more steps backwards, into the house—away from the cop and out of his father's easy reach. He'd stopped when he got to the end of the living room—he'd stopped and reached back, putting his arms behind him as though they were cuffed again, before leaning, nonchalantly, against his crossed wrists and propping himself up against the wall that abutted the kitchen's doorway.

The cop had left at that, without another word. He'd turned, gone down the short walk and out the front gate. Their father had waited until he had driven off, before he shut the front door. Ryan had stayed standing still all that time, just inside the doorway to the hall leading to the bedrooms, still feeling like he wanted to vomit.

Their father had turned; slowly and deliberately, he had crossed the few feet over to the coffee table, stubbed out his cigarette on its surface and picked up his half-full beer. He'd drained it in one long pull, then stood—absently holding the bottle and swinging it loosely by its neck. He had stared at Trey for a while, his gaze still slightly unfocused, before finally speaking.

"What the hell is _wrong_ with you?" he'd finally asked, his tone remarkably quiet, but unmistakably dangerous. Enough so that Ryan's blood had instantly run cold. Ryan had thought that Trey must have felt it too, since he had darted a quick look at his little brother before he had retrained his gaze on their dad. But, despite that, Trey hadn't dropped the casual front. He'd just stood there, leaning back against the wall, looking at his dad, through bored and practiced eyes.

"I mean…what _exactly_ is the fuck _wrong_ with you?"

Their father's voice was still quiet, although he'd amped it up just a bit. Just enough to make it scary.

Trey had stared at his father for a few seconds, before he'd finally shrugged, and managed a grin that stopped at the ends of his lips.

"I dunno, Dad…crap genetics, I'm guessing."

Even from a vantage point of ten feet away, Ryan had seen the telltale angry vein. The one that ran from the top corner of their father's left eye, and disappeared up into his hairline, as it had popped out, suddenly standing out in stark relief against his skin.

The three of them had stood in uneasy silence as their father had seemed to consider Trey's words for a moment, his face clearly registering his anger and annoyance.

They had stood in uneasy silence, that is…until the situation exploded—literally—less than five seconds later when, out of nowhere, Frank had hurled his beer bottle. It shattered against the wall, less than a foot from his older son's head, raining glass everywhere. All things considered, it had been a good thing that he'd missed so wildly, because there was no way that Trey would have been able to muster up anything more than what he had—a cringe, a duck and a not-quite-fully-executed turn of the head—not with the way he had been leaning back against his hands, pinning them against the wall with his own body weight, rendering himself completely defenseless.

Ryan had watched as Trey's face had finally registered the fear he must surely have been feeling, but even then, only fleetingly, before his defiant mask had slipped back into place. Trey had quickly scrambled to stand upright after the initial surprise, moving his arms out from behind him and holding them flat against his sides.

Ryan had turned his gaze back to his dad, who was staring at Trey. There had been no remorse, no surprise at himself. No echo of compunction in his hardened eyes, which had seemed suddenly much more focused. Some of his drunk, undoubtedly, had been replaced with some of his anger.

Ryan's brother and his father had continued to glare at each other for a couple of seconds, in seemingly mutual hatred and disgust. Finally, it was Trey who broke the silence.

"Nice aim, Pops. Though, next time? You might wanna try going for…you know…the me in the middle."

Their father had lost it, then. He'd come charging at Trey, who had been a bit too slow in getting a jump towards the hallway to their bedroom. Frank had brought him down to the ground in a full body tackle, just a few short feet short from where Ryan was standing.

Since Trey'd been running and their father had taken him down from behind, he'd ended up with his right cheek to the living room floor, his left arm pinned uselessly underneath him, his right arm stretched out before him, still aimed in the general direction of the hallway. He'd tried to use his free arm to pull himself up, dragging his elbow along the floor and in towards himself, a task which had proved impossible with their father's relatively sizeable weight holding him down.

"Dad, please…"

Ryan had been only half-aware that he'd spoken the words out loud, until their father looked up and apparently noticed Ryan for the first time. Or the second time, Ryan supposed, since he'd come into the living room.

"I—thought I told you to go back to bed," he had said, seemingly surprised that Ryan hadn't heeded the first time he'd asked.

Ryan's head had started shaking back and forth at that, slowly, but repeatedly, and pretty much of its own accord. Trey had managed to lift his own head far enough off the ground to turn it and look straight at his little brother.

"Dude, go back to bed," he'd implored, his voice gentle…coaxing…pleading…with just the smallest, but unmistakable, bit of panic seeping through underneath.

Ryan had been in shock, rooted to the spot, his head still doing its slow shake…back and forth, back and forth…back…and…forth. He couldn't seem to stop it or to regain the autonomous use of his limbs.

Their dad had leaned back on his heels and turned Trey over, onto his back, ignoring Ryan for the moment. Pinning both of Trey's arms to his side, he'd forcefully slammed his son into the ground a few times. With his arms immobilized, Trey had been able to do nothing to soften the blows, and the sickening sound of his head bouncing off of the floor had further soured Ryan's stomach. Or, it would have, if it had even been possible.

Then…well, then their father had started punching. Frank had been kneeling, straddling Trey's prone form, his knees just above Trey's wrists, holding Trey's arms flat to the ground. He had leaned heavily on his left arm, which was pinning Trey's right shoulder to the floor and he had lifted his right hand and repeatedly slammed his closed fist down into Trey's face.

Blood had spurted everywhere. Or at least that's the way it had looked to Ryan. Of course, to Ryan, it had also looked like his dad hit Trey twenty times, or more …although in reality, it had probably been closer to three or four. When Ryan had finally regained the independent use of his limbs, he'd rushed up and took a hold of his dad's right arm, just as he drew it back to administer another blow.

Ryan had grabbed onto his father's bicep with both of his hands and literally dug his heels into the living room floor as he'd yanked back with all of the strength contained in his small body, doing everything he could to just…_stop_…its downward progress, as his father had strained to continue its intended trajectory towards Trey's bloodied face.

Frank had looked up and locked eyes with his younger son and Ryan had seen his dad's surprise that he had involved himself in the situation. And, though Ryan had done his best to look brave and resolved, he was pretty sure that his own eyes had given away the utter terror he was feeling.

Frank got rid of Ryan easily enough by flinging out his arm and shaking it, causing Ryan to fly three feet backwards, dumping him unceremoniously onto his ass. With that temporary, but ultimately inconsequential, impediment gone, Frank had returned back to the task at hand—fucking up Trey. He had resumed punching his older son, over and over again.

Ryan had wanted to help. He had wanted to do something—anything—to stop his father from beating on his brother. But he had found that he was once again rendered immobile by his own fear. And, though there was nothing he had wanted to do more, he had also found that he couldn't look away—that he was forced to bear witness to the savage brutality of what was happening before him.

When it looked like he'd had enough with Trey, Frank had stood. He had seemed suddenly weary as he had turned and, head down and shoulders hunched, made his way over to where Ryan sat, still leaning back on his hands, his legs sprawled out before him. Seeing his dad approach, Ryan had crab-walked backwards, trying to remain out of his father's reach. Eventually, he had run out of floor, his back pressed into the wall behind him. As Ryan had looked up at his father, terrified, Frank had taken a deep, shuddering breath, then leaned down and lifted him to his feet.

After a quick glance over to make sure that Trey wasn't going anywhere, Frank had taken a step back from Ryan and backhanded his younger son, catching him squarely across his right cheek. He'd then grabbed both of Ryan's upper arms, lifted him up off the ground, and slammed him into the wall before sitting him back down, roughly. In the process, Ryan's right knee had caught his jaw, jarring it painfully and causing his mouth to fill with the unmistakable metallic taste of blood—a quick run of his tongue around the inside of his mouth, though, had proved the taste phantom—fortunately, he had still had all of his teeth.

"Don't you fucking move, Ryan…you hear me? Not one fucking muscle…not unless I tell you to," Frank had growled.

Ryan had nodded, solemnly, his knees drawn up, his arms hugging them close, his back to the wall. In the meantime, Trey had somehow managed to turn over and rise up onto all fours. Blood was dripping from his nose and mouth, pooling onto the floor below him. He had looked dazed. Stunned. He had shaken his head slowly from side to side, as though he were trying to clear a ringing in his ears.

Frank had walked over to his older son almost casually and put the sole of his boot on Trey's shoulder. Then, leaning into his leg, he'd straightened it out, pushing Trey over easily. Trey had toppled onto his side and immediately and instinctively reached up to shield his chest and face with his forearms.

Their dad hadn't kicked him, though, even though it's what Ryan had been expecting. He had been breathing heavily and he had stood there with his hands still balled into fists, just kind of…looking down at where Trey lay, battered, on the floor below.

"You got anything else you need to say to me with that smart mouth of yours?" he'd finally asked.

Ryan had watched as Trey had slowly pulled his arms from their protective position, rolled over, and forced himself to his feet. His face had been a mess. Ryan hadn't been able to tell if Trey was bleeding from his nose, his cheek, or his lip, but if he'd had to put money on it, his guess would have been all three.

When Trey was fully upright, there had been a moment when his remaining so was very much in question. He had swayed slightly, blinking repeatedly at the floor below him. Ryan had thought that he was most likely trying to focus in on a stationary spot, doing his damnedest to get his world to stop rolling and pitching.

Frank had stood, his arms crossed, looking at Trey with anticipation. Ryan had sat and hugged his knees even tighter, even as he had focused his stare at his brother as intently as he could. He had been trying to burn a path from his own eyes straight through Trey's scalp and right on into his brain, so that Trey could hear his thoughts. So that Trey could hear Ryan's desperate, but silent, plea that he was beaming along that path with all of his might.

_Shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up! God, please, Trey, shut up_!

Ryan's attempt at telepathy, however, had been about as effective as his crack at running interference with their dad had been. As in, well, very much not at all.

Because Trey had finally looked up, fixed his father with as steadfast and defiant a gaze as he could muster, spat out a mouthful of blood onto the floor and choked out, "Not one goddamned thing."

Ryan had almost relaxed at that, but Trey had gone on with barely a pause.

"Except, you know—thank you. I mean, Ryan and me, we're all kinds of lucky. Who needs Disney Land when you've got a dad who's made entirely out of eight kinds of awesome?"

Their dad had just stood there, shaking his head. He'd seemed as disappointed in Trey as Ryan had been, albeit for a different reason.

It could have been over and it should have been over and Ryan had just wanted it to _be_ over and he hadn't really understood why it wasn't. All he could think of at that moment was that Trey must have hated their father a whole awful lot, for him to have wanted Frank to kill him like that.

"Or…what I really mean to say is…_fuck you_," Trey had continued, not the one to disprove Ryan's suicide-by-dad theory.

Their father had backhanded Trey again, hard, then had grabbed him by the back of his neck and pushed him towards the kitchen. It had been readily apparent by then that Trey, despite the vehemence behind his words, had had very little fight left in him. His legs weren't quite working right. He'd stumbled and started to fall, but Frank had just caught him roughly and dragged him into the other room, one hand on his upper arm and the other on his neck.

Ryan had heard the crackle of glass under their shoes as they treaded over the remains of the broken bottle and, as they disappeared through the kitchen doorway, he had put his hands over his ears and pressed as hard as he could, hoping to block out whatever it was that was going to happen. He really, really hadn't wanted any part of hearing his father kill his brother.

He had been out of luck, though, as his father's bellowed, "_Ryan_!" penetrated his makeshift barriers mere seconds later.

Ryan had gotten up and slowly made his way to the kitchen at that, taking care to avoid stepping on the broken glass with his bare feet. In the few minutes that his father and Trey had been alone, his father had somehow managed to remove Trey's hoodie and t-shirt, or managed to make Trey take them off himself. Trey had been sitting—leaning, really—hunched forward with his arms crossed on the kitchen table in front of him, each hand gripping the lax bicep of the opposite arm, his forehead resting on top of one of his wrists. He had been staring straight down, apparently focused in on the ever-expanding puddle of blood that was slowing dripping and pooling onto the table from his nose and chin.

Frank had been using his left hand to press down on Trey's neck, ostensibly to hold him in place, though it hadn't looked to Ryan like Trey was putting up much of a fight, or really anything by the way of resistance.

Ryan had stood in the doorway, unsure of why his father had called him there, until Frank had looked over his shoulder and gestured for Ryan to come to him.

"I need my belt," he'd said, simply.

Ryan had known that his dad could easily have pulled his own belt from his jeans. But for some reason—whether to punish Ryan for his earlier defiance or to offer him an object lesson—he'd wanted Ryan to do it for him. Ryan had wished that he could say no. That he could just _not_. He had hesitated for a few seconds, until his father had admonished him with another sharp, "_Ryan_!"

At that, Trey had rolled his forehead to the right, just enough to make eye contact with his little brother. He'd raised an eyebrow and lifted his right shoulder a fraction of an inch, in a weak shrug. The implication was clear.

With shaking fingers, Ryan had fumbled at his father's buckle, pulling awkwardly on the end of his belt. Ultimately, he had managed to wrestle the metal prong from the hole in which it rested. He had yanked on the thick leather, finally freeing it from his father's waist and, when his dad had held out an anticipatory hand, Ryan had passed it to him, his fingers still slightly trembling.

Frank had let go of Trey then, taken the belt, and doubled it over. He had taken the loose ends and put them together, crimping them in on themselves to make the belt more compact. With the buckle resting securely in his palm and his fingers wrapped around the thick folds he'd put into the leather, he'd turned back to his older son.

Trey hadn't moved through any of their father's preparations.

Frank had grabbed Trey's wrists and roughly yanked them forward a few inches, pulling his arms out so that they were farther away from his body. As Trey's head had slipped off of its perch on his arms, it had softly thudded onto the table. He'd turned slightly, so that he had his cheek to the Formica—his right, less battered cheek. Of course, the effect of Frank's maneuver had been to stretch Trey out slightly and expose more of his narrow back.

Frank had put his left hand on Trey's neck again, immobilizing him, before bringing the belt down. The nauseating crack of leather meeting bare skin had echoed loudly in the overly bright kitchen. The first few times Frank hit him, Trey'd bucked a bit as the belt bit into his flesh, and he'd emitted a quiet grunt. But by the fourth or fifth blow, he'd stopped reacting altogether. Frank had been able to let go of Trey's neck then, confident that his older son wasn't going to move and, with the better leverage that afforded, the beating had accelerated in intensity.

If Frank had been hoping to get a further reaction out of Trey, he'd been out of luck. Trey had just stayed there, hunched over the table. His eyes, which were squeezed tightly closed, gave the only indication that Trey had, in fact, still been conscious.

Ryan had counted a silent ten lashes to himself, before his dad stopped hitting his brother and tossed the belt to the side.

Trey's eyes had relaxed somewhat, then, though he still hadn't opened them. He had almost looked as though he could have been asleep.

It was at that moment that Dawn, her timing impeccable as ever, had stumbled through the front door. She'd come into the kitchen, her eyes slowly drifting from Trey, to Ryan to Frank.

"What happened?" she'd asked, and she had been swaying slightly, her face flushed.

The odor of booze had emanated off of her so strongly, Ryan could have sworn it was visible, like cartoon waves.

"Trey," Frank had answered, simply, nodding down at their son, who was still hunched over the table, eyes shut.

"Aw, for fuck's sake, what'd he go and do now?"

Dawn's voice had registered her annoyance, and Ryan, still focused on his brother, saw his shoulders rise and fall, saw him wince.

"He was out drinking and smoking behind the liquor store on Brandywine, got caught by the cops after curfew, got brought home in cuffs," Frank had explained.

"What is _wrong_ with that kid?" Dawn had asked, an unconscious echo of her husband, before bending her head down to Trey's ear and yelling, "What in the hell is _wrong_ with you?"

Trey hadn't moved, or opened his eyes, although they did squeeze tight again in the face of his mother's rebuke. There was no smartassed answer.

"Trey, get to bed," their father had ordered after they all stood in silence for a moment. "Ryan, clean up this mess."

Then, having dismissed both of his sons, their father walked over to the refrigerator in the corner.

"You want a beer?" he'd asked his wife, who'd nodded her reply.

Frank had pulled out two beers and handed one to Dawn, after twisting off its cap. He'd then left the kitchen without a backwards glance, going back into the living room to sit in front of the television with the volume jacked up, the TV tuned to some late late night talk show.

Trey had opened his eyes at that, finally, and Ryan had watched as he'd struggled to focus in on his hands, which were still resting on the table. With what seemed like an enormous effort, Trey'd managed to pull himself up and sit back in the chair, though he'd gasped a bit and arched forward when he hit it with a touch more force than he'd anticipated. Trey'd pushed the chair back at that, grabbing onto the table with both hands and pulling himself upright.

"You've gotta stop this, Trey," their mother had said from her spot near the doorway. She had been holding her beer loosely with three fingers on the top of its neck, swinging it in a tight circle.

"You've gotta stop it with all of this…this messing up all of the goddamned time."

Trey'd aimed a tired, but decidedly angry, look at his mother, who'd looked back at him through rheumy eyes for what seemed like a full minute, before smacking him once—hard—across his bloody cheek.

Ryan had gasped at that. Before that night, the unspoken, but universally adhered-to rule had always been that Dawn would never touch the boys after Frank had had a go at them. In fact, the aftermath of one of his father's beatings was often the only time that their mother showed any kind of physical affection to either of her sons.

"You don't…you don't get to look at me like that," she'd spat, "Not after the cops hauled your ass back in here tonight."

Then, dropping her voice to a whisper, she'd continued, "You've got no right. No fucking right, Trey…no fucking right."

Trey's head had snapped back slightly, in response to her slap, but he had recovered quickly, and his gaze, when he returned it to their mother, had seemed no less hostile to Ryan.

Dawn had pointed her bottle to Trey.

"Your dad told you to go to bed. So go. But—you've gotta straighten up your act, kiddo. You've gotta straighten up your fucking act."

She'd left the kitchen then, going to join their dad in the living room.

As soon as she was gone, Ryan had rushed over to his brother.

"You okay?"

Trey'd just stood there, looking all kinds of pissed off, before finally nodding.

"I'll live, Ry," he'd managed to choke out, and Ryan was sure he was trying to restrain himself from going after their mother—from saying something that was sure to get his ass kicked. Or kicked even more.

Ryan had reached a tentative arm out and put it around his brother's waist, hoping that he could stop…well…whatever it was that Trey was at least thinking about doing. He had given his brother a tight squeeze.

Trey'd looked surprised for a few seconds, but then he'd reached down and put an arm around Ryan's shoulders, squeezing him back, slightly, before releasing him and starting to walk out of the room. He'd half-turned before he reached the doorway and he'd apologized, throwing over his shoulder.

"Sorry I…uh…kind of bled all over the place."

He'd waited until Ryan'd offered a half-hearted grin that came nowhere near to reaching his eyes, and then he'd shuffled off and out of the room.

Ryan had grabbed the broom and dustpan from their place in the opening between the refrigerator and the wall and he'd moved out to the living room to start sweeping up the mess of glass. He'd heard the water running in the bathroom and had assumed that Trey was cleaning himself up. When the water cut off, he'd watched over his shoulder as his brother deliberately crossed the hallway and into their bedroom. He'd watched as the light briefly shone, then cut out. He'd continued cleaning up the remnants of the night's violence.

As Ryan swept up the glass, then carefully wiped his brother's blood from the living room floor, the kitchen floor and the table, he'd noticed his mother snuggle up close to his father on the couch in front of the television. His father had absently brushed at her hair and the sudden sound of the two of them laughing loudly a few times at something the host said…well, it had jarred—in the house's otherwise relative quiet.

When they'd finished their beers, Ryan's parents had turned off the television and disappeared into their bedroom, leaving their empty bottles on the coffee table. Ryan had cleaned those up, as well, before piling some ice in a dishtowel and going back to his own room and waiting for his mother to emerge. Because, no matter how angry she was at Trey, she wouldn't just go to bed without checking on him. No way. Or, at least, she never had, before.

As he had opened the door, he had seen Trey huddled on his bed, his body an apostrophe, drawn into itself and facing the wall. His shoulders were shuddering and it was obvious that he was crying. Which, Ryan had thought, was odd.

Ryan hadn't been able to remember the last time Trey had cried after a beating and he'd been hit a whole lot worse. In fact, this didn't even rate in the top five, not really. Not even when measured against the brutality of the beatings Trey'd gotten in the past year. After all, their father hadn't even been all _that_ wasted, when he'd come after Trey that night. And he'd seemed to sober up, in the process, which usually mitigated things, in the end.

Ryan had sat on his own bed for a few minutes, unsure of what to do, in the dark and the quiet, still holding onto the chilled dishtowel. Well, at least it had still been dark. The quiet had been broken up pretty regularly by the slap and giggle of his parents, their earlier argument obviously forgotten. Trey'd been wrong about that, at least, after all. Not that Ryan was going to point it out.

"Trey."

He'd finally screwed up the courage to approach, standing by his brother's bed.

"Go 'way, Ryan," Trey'd answered, his voice still thick with tears.

"It's just…I…um…I've got some ice…you know…if you need it," Ryan'd offered, holding out the towel.

"Yeah…okay, thanks," Trey'd murmured, taking it and rolling over so that he was sitting, his back to the wall separating their room from their parents' room. The wall through which their mother could now just barely—but horribly—be heard to softly moan.

As Trey had pressed the ice up to his eye and cheek, Ryan had stood there, entirely uncertain of what he could do to make any of this all better. He was pretty certain that there was nothing, but he was sure willing to try, if there was anything, _anything_ at all that he could do to help.

Anything to make his brother…well, to make his brother act a little more like _Trey_…and a little less like a twelve-year-old who'd just gotten the crap kicked out of him by his dad, with his mother piling on a bit at the end.

At least Trey had stopped crying by then, though a shudder still ran through him every so often, a stray remnant of his recent jag catching up to him. He was also gently banging his head against the wall behind him, his eyes closed, in a seeming effort to momentarily drown out the sound of his parents, as they softly, but audibly made up with each other.

"God, I hate her," he'd finally allowed, in a voice almost too low for Ryan to catch.

"What?" Ryan had asked, not sure that he'd heard correctly.

"I fucking hate her," Trey had repeated and Ryan couldn't help but think that his brother was blaming entirely the wrong parent.

After all, it was their father who had beaten the shit out of Trey. All their mother had done was to deliver one small slap. And her disappointment. Which? It was their mother, after all. She was rather prone to disappointment.

"Can I ask you a question?" Ryan had finally asked, since he had hated feeling like he was missing out on a crucial part of what had happened. The _whatever_ it was that had made Trey leave the relative safety of their room and go hang out with a bunch of older kids at the liquor store—after curfew, no less.

"Depends on the question, el dorko," Trey had thrown back, like Ryan could have predicted.

"What happened tonight?"

Trey had shrugged, his eyes still closed.

"You could have been _arrested_," Ryan had pointed out, still not willing to let it drop, when Trey didn't verbally answer.

Trey had sighed then and shook his head slightly. Finally, he had opened his eyes and fixed his gaze on his little brother.

"C'mon, Ryan. Overreact much? I wasn't about to go and get myself arrested," he had said, a slight smile playing lightly on his lips, "Geez, I thought everyone knew that that cop Williams _always_ takes a kid home, the first time he catches him out after curfew. Oh, he'll handcuff the kid and throw him in the back of his cruiser—'cause he thinks it's all scary or some shit—and apparently he'll bitch at the kid till his eardrums bleed, but they don't call him _soft Willie_ for nothing."

"Soft Willie?" Ryan had repeated.

"Yeah, though if there's another reason for the nickname…I don't wanna hear a thing about it. Like seriously, dude." Trey had exaggerated a shudder and his ghost of a smile had widened itself into a full-on smirk.

"So I guess you were just lucky that you got caught by…by this _soft Willie_ guy and not some other cop, hunh?" Ryan had asked. He hadn't had the slightest idea of what Trey was talking about, but he wasn't about to ask for clarification, either, especially since there was at least a glimmer of the old familiar _Trey_ back.

"Yup…that's exactly what I was, Ryan…I was _lucky_," Trey had confirmed, though, to his little brother, it sounded a bit sarcastic for the circumstances.

"Well, you'd better make sure you don't get caught again," Ryan had offered his advice, unbidden. "I mean, he did say that you wouldn't be getting any more breaks. Next time you really _might_ get arrested."

Trey had laughed softly at that, "Not a problem, Ry."

Then, after a few seconds, he'd continued, shaking his head in mock disappointment, "C'mon, though, man—you sure doknow how to let a brother down."

"What do you mean?" Ryan had asked, still completely lost.

"I mean, you seriously think that that _soft Willie_ dude—a dude fatter than Albert—could have caught up to me? Like for reals?" Trey had started quietly laughing again.

"But…"

Although Ryan had had a thousand questions running through his head, Trey had cut him off with a gentle, "Go to bed, Ryan," before lying down, drawing his covers around himself and putting his head on his pillow, a clear signal that the conversation was over.

Ryan hadn't known it then, but that was the last time he'd ever see Trey cry. It was also the night that something had fundamentally shifted in Trey and it had marked the beginning of his great, two-front war on the Atwood family. Where before it had always been the three of them against Frank, after that night, Trey had clearly washed his hands of his mother, just as he'd washed his hands of his father, long before.

When they'd moved to Chino after their dad's arrest a little over a year later, Trey and their mother had been locked in a cold war that had never ended. While Trey had still jumped into the fray on the occasions when it was Ryan's head that was being used as a speed bag, it was Ryan who had been alone in charging to Dawn's defense with each new boyfriend. Each new boyfriend, who'd seemed impossibly worse than the last. With Trey—at least until he'd moved out after AJ'd kicked him out—sneaking him icepacks and frozen peas in the bloody aftermath. Well, icepacks, frozen peas and most likely a lecture, delivered in the half-stoned, half-dead voice that Trey'd adopted as his own—the topic of which was invariably that, not only was Dawn not worth the fucking aggravation, it was her own goddamned fault that she kept ending up on the knuckle side of some asswipe's fist. After all, she was the one who repeatedly brought the same guy home time after time after ever-loving time. Oh, his name might have changed along the way from Ray to Cal to Brian to AJ or whatever. But, he was still Frank Fucking Atwood, all over again.

Paulo bumped the back of his knee with the toolbox in a friendly enough way, but Ryan still staggered forward, barely catching himself before he fell. Paulo reached out and tucked a hand under his arm, helping to keep him upright as Trey poked his head out of the rusted screen door.

"Jesus Christ, Lennie, do you think you could…you know…not finish the kid off before I at least find out what the hell he wants?" he called, and Paulo let go of Ryan just long enough to flip him the bird.

"Get in here, the two of you, before the neighbors see you stinking up our yard. You look like ass, Ry. There's gotta be something in here we can use for an icepack, at least. Oh…and could you bring the box in with you? Thanks."

He disappeared back into the house before Ryan or Paulo could answer.

—TBC—


End file.
